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£3ChS 


THE 


P  O  E T I C  A L    W  O  RKS 


OF 


TAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL. 


COMPLETE    EDITION. 


LONDON: 

MACMILLAN   AND    COMPANY. 
1S80. 


CONTENTS. 


Miscellaneous  Poems.  pagb 

Threnodia 1 

The  Sirens 2 

Irene1 3 

Serenade 5 

With  a  Pressed  Flower 5 

The  Beggar 5 

My  Love " 

Summer  Storm 7 

Love 8 

To  Perdita,  Singing 9 

The  Moon    . IO 

Remembered  Music IO 

Song Il 

Allegra •     ■  '•        •        •  " 

The  Fountain " 

Ode I2 

The  Fatherland    ....                »S 

The  Forlorn      ....                J5 

Midnight l6 

A  Prayer l6 

The  Heritage '7 

The  Rose  :  A  Ballad '7 

A  Legend  of  Brittany • J8 

Prometheus 3° 

Song 36 

Rosaline 37 

The  Shepherd  of  King  Admetus 38 

The  Token 3« 

An  Incident  in  a  Railroad  Car 39 

Rhcecus 4° 

The  Falcon 42 

Trial 43 

A  Requiem 43 

A  Parable  .                                   44 

A  Glance  behind  the  Curtain 44 

Song 5o 


i  CONTENTS. 

A  Chippewa  Legend 5° 

Stanzas  on  Freedom .52 

Columbus 53 

An  Incident  of  the  Fire  at  Hamburg 57 

The  Sower 58 

Hunger  and  Cold 59 

The  Landlord 60 

To  a  Pine-Tree 60 

Si  Descendero  in  Infernum,  Ades 61 

To  the  Past 62 

To  the  Future 62 

Hebe :        .  64 

The  Search 64 

The  Present  Crisis    .                 65 

An  Indian-Summer  Reverie 67 

The  Growth  of  the  Legend 73 

A  Contrast 74 

Extreme  Unction 74 

The  Oak 75 

Ambrose -    ...  76 

Above  and  Below '       .        .        .77 

The  Captive 78 

The  Birch-Tree    .        . 79 

An  Interview  with  Miles  Standish  ......<•  80 

On  the  Capture  of  Certain  Fugitive  Slaves  near  Washington    .        .    -    .  81 

To  the  Dandelion 82- 

The  Ghost-Seer 83 

Studies  for  two  Heads 85 

On  a  Portrait  of  Dante,  by  Giotto 86 

On  the  Death  of  a  Friend's  Child 87 

Eurydice 89 

She  Came  and  Went 89 

The  Changeling 90 

The  Pioneer 90 

Longing 91 

Ode  to  France 92 

Anti-Apis 95 

A  Parable 96 

Ode  written  for  the  Celebration  of  the  Introduction  of  the  Cochituate 

Water  into  the  City  of  Boston 97 

Lines  suggested  by  the  Graves  of  two  English  Soldiers  on  Concord  Battle 

Ground 97 

To 98 

Freedom 98 

Bibliolatres • 99 

Beaver  Brook 100 

Memorial  Verses. 

Kossuth 101 

To  Lamartine 101 

To  John  G.  Palfrey 102 

To  W.  L.  Garrison       ...........  104 

On  the  Death  of  C.  T.  Torrey 104 


CONTENTS. 


Elegy  on  the  Death  of  Dr.  Charming 105 

To  the  Memory  of  Hood 106 

Sonnets. 

1.    To  A.  C.  L i°7 

11.     "What  were  I,  Love" 107 

in.     "  I  would  not  have  this  perfect  love  " 108 

iv.     "  For  this  true  nobleness" 108 

v.     To  the  Spirit  of  Keats 108 

vi.     "  Great  Truths  are  portions  of  the  soul  " 108 

vil.     "  I  ask  not  for  those  thoughts" 109 

vin.     To  M.  W.  on  her  birthday 109 

ix.     "  My  Love,  I  have  no  fear  " 109 

x.     "  I  cannot  think  that  thou" 109 

XI.     "  There  never  yet  was  flower  " no 

XII.     Sub  Pondere  Crescit no 

Xiii.  "  Beloved,  in  the  noisy  city  here "          .        .        .       #.                 .110 
xiv.  On  reading  Wordsworth's  Sonnets  in  Defence  of  Capital  Punish- 
ment    . "° 

xv.    The  same  continued in 

XVI.     The  same  continued ill 

xvii.    The  same  continued in 

XVIII.     The  same  continued i" 

xix.    The  same  continued "2 

xx.     ToM.  O.  S 112 

xxi.  "  Our  love  is  not  a  fading,  earthly  flower "         ....      112 

xxii.     In  Absence "3 

xxiii.     Wendell  Phillips "3 

xxiv.     The  Street "3 

xxv.     "  I  grieve  not  that  ripe  Knowledge  " 113 

xxvi.     To  J.  R.  Giddings "4 

xxvii.     "  I  thought  our  love  at  full" IX4 

L'Envoi "4 

The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal "7 

A  Fable  for  Critics I23 

The  Biglow  Papers.    First  Series. 

Notices  of  an  Independent  Press l6S 

Note  to  Title-Page *7» 

Introduction •         •         •         •  x74 

I.    A  Letter  from  Mr.  Ezekiel  Biglow  of  Jaalam  to  the  Hon.  Joseph 

T.  Buckingham .•         •       l83 

11.    A  Letter  from  Mr.  Hosea  Biglow  to  the  Hon.  J.  T.  Buckingham     185 

III.     What  Mr.  Robinson  thinks i<3° 

iv.     Remarks  of  Increase  D.  O'Phace,  Esq 194 

v.     The  Debate  in  the  Sennit 2°° 

vi.     The  Pious  Editor's  Creed .203 

vil.     A  Letter  from  a  Candidate  for  the  Presidency  in  answer  to  suttin 

Questions  proposed  by  Mr.  Hosea  Biglow 206 

vin.     A  second  Letter  from  B.  Sawin,  Esq 210 

ix.    A  third  Letter  from  B.  Sawin,  Esq 216 


viii  CONTENTS. 

The  Biglow  Papers.    Second  Series 

Introduction 227 

The  Coin-tin' .        •         •        .         '251 

1.  Birdofredum  Sawin,  Esq.,  to  Mr.  Hosea  Biglow.        .        .        .253 

11.  Mason  and  Slidell :  A  Yankee  Idyll         ...'...  261 

in.  Birdofredum  Sawin,  Esq.,  to  Mr.  Hosea  Biglow          .         .         .274 

iv.     A  Message  of  Jeff  Davis  in  Secret  Session 283 

v]  Speech  of  Honourable  Preserved  Doe  in  Secret  Caucus      .        .       289 

vi!     Sunthin'  in  the  Pastoral  Line 296 

vii.     Latest  views  of  Mr.  Biglow  .  302 

viii.     Ketelopotomachia 3°7 

ix.     The  Editors  of  the  "Atlantic" 310 

x.  Mr.  Hosea  Biglow  to  the  Editor  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly       .        .314 

xi!  Mr.  Hosea  Biglow's  Speech  in  March  Meeting                                 317 

Glossary » 327 

Index 33* 

The  Unhappv  Lot  of  Mr.  Knott 349 

An  Oriental  Apologue 36x 

Under  the  Willows,  and  other  Poems 

To  Charles  Eliot  Norton 37» 

Under  the  Willows 37» 

Dara 378 

The  First  Snow-Fall 379 

The  Singing  Leaves 379 

Sea-Weed • 381 

The  Finding  of  the  Lyre 381 

New  Year's  Eve.     1850 382 

For  an  Autograph 382 

Al  Fresco 382 

Masaccio 383 

Without  and  Within 384 

Godminster  Chimes 384 

The  Parting  of  the  Ways .385 

Aladdin 387 

An  Invitation 387 

The  Nomades 389 

Self-Study 39° 

Pictures  from  Appledore 39° 

The  Wind-Harp 395 

Auf  Wiedersehen 396 

Palinode • 39° 

After  the  Burial •  396 

The  Dead  House 397 

A  Mood 398 

The  Voyage  to  Vinland 398 

Mahmood  the  Image-Breaker 402 

Invita  Minerva ..<■•  403 

The  Fountain  of  Youth 4°4 


CONTENTS.  ix 

Yussouf 406 

The  Darkened  Mind 407 

What  Rabbi  Jehosha  said 407 

All-Saints 407 

A  Winter-Evening  Hymn  to  my  Fire 408 

Fancy's  Casuistry 410 

To  Mr.  John  Bartlett 411 

Ode  to  Happiness •    .         .        .         .411 

Villa  Franca 413 

The  Miner ,  •         .       414 

Gold  Egg  :  A  Dream-Fantasy '  .  414 

A  Familiar  Epistle  to  a  Friend •       416 

An  Ember  Picture 418 

To  H.  W.  L 419 

The  Nightingale  in  the  Study 420 

In  the  Twilight 421 

The  Foot-path 421 

Poems  of  the  War. 

The  Washers  of  the  Shroud 423 

Two  Scenes  from  the  Life  of  Blonde        ......         .       425 

Memoriae  Positum 427 

On  Board  the  '76 42S 

Ode  Recited  at  the  Harvard  Commemoration 426 

L'Envoi:  To  the  Muse 439 

The  Cathedral ' 439 

Three  Memorial  Poems 455 

Ode  read  at  the  One  Hundredth  Anniversary  of  the  Fight  at  Concord 

Bridge,  19th  April,  1875 457 

Under  the  Old  Elm.     Poem  read  at  Cambridge  on  the  Hundredth  An- 
niversary of  Washington's  taking  Command  of  the  American  Army, 

3d  July,  1775 460 

An  Ode  for  the  Fourth  of  July,  1876 467 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


THRENODIA. 

Gone,  gone  from  us  !  and  shall  we 

see 
Those  sibyl-leaves  of  destiny, 
Those  calm  eyes,  nevermore? 
Those  deep,  dark  eyes  so  warm  and 

bright, 
Wherein  the  fortunes  of  the  man 
Lay  slumbering  in  prophetic  light, 
In  characters  a  child  might  scan  ? 
So  bright,  and  gone  forth  utterly  1 
O  stern  word  —  Nevermore  ! 

The  stars  of  those  two  gentle  eyes 
Will  shine  no  more  on  earth  ; 
Quenched  are  the  hopes  that  had  their 

birth, 
As  we  watched  them  slowly  rise, 
Stars  of  a  mother's  fate1 : 
And  she  would  read  them  o'er  and  o'er, 
Pondering  as  she  sate, 
Over  their  dear  astrology, 
Which   she   had  conned  and  conned 

before, 
Deeming  she  needs  must  read  aright 
What  was  writ  so  passing  bright. 
And  yet,  alas  !  she  knew  not  why, 
Her  voice  would  falter  in  its  song, 
And  tears  would  slide  from  out  her  eye, 
Silent,  as  they  were  doing  wrong. 

0  stern  word  —  Nevermore  ! 

The  tongue  that  scarce  had  learned 
to  claim 
An  entrance  to  a  mother's  heart 
By  that  dear  talisman,  a  mother's  name, 
Sleeps  all  forgetful  of  its  art  1 

1  loved  to  see  the  infant  soul 
(How  mighty  in  the  weakness 
Of  its  untutored  meekness  !) 
Peep  timidly  from  out  its  nest, 


His  lips,  the  while, 

Fluttering  with  half-fledged  words, 

Or  hushing  to  a  smile 

That  more  than  words  expressed, 

When  his  glad  mother  on  him  stole 

And  snatched  him  to  her  breast  ! 

O,  thoughts  were  brooding  in  those 
eyes, 

That  would  have  soared  like  strong- 
winged  birds 

Far,  far,  into  the  skies, 

Gladding  the  earth  with  song, 

And  gushing  harmonies, 

Had  he  but  tarried  with  us  long  I 

O  stem  word  —  Nevermore  ! 

How  peacefully  they  rest, 
Crossfolded  there 
Upon  his  little  breast, 
Those   small,   white  hands  that  ne'er 

were  still  before, 
But  ever  sported  with  his  mother's  hair, 
Or  the  plain  cross  that  on  her  breast 

she  wore  ! 
Her  heart  no  more  will  beat 
To  feel  the  touch  of  that  soft  palm, 
That  ever  seemed  a  new  surprise 
Sending  glad  thoughts  up  to  her  eyes 
To  bless  him  with  their  holy  calm,  — 
Sweet  thoughts  !   they  made  her  eyes 

as  sweet. 
How  quiet  are  the  hands 
That  wove  those  pleasant  bands  ! 
But  that  they  do  not  rise  and  sink 
With  his  calm  breathing,  I  should  think 
That  he  were  dropped  asleep. 
Alas  !  too  deep,  too  deep 
Is  this  his  slumber  ! 
Time  scarce  can  number 
The  years  ere  he  will  wake  again. 
O,  may  we  see  his  eyelids  open  then  ! 
O  stern  word  —  Nevermore  I 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


As  the  airy  gossamere, 
Floating  in  the  sunlight  clear, 
Where'er  it  toucheth  clingeth  tightly, 
Round  glossy  leaf  or  stump  unsightly, 
So  from  his  spirit  wandered  out 
Tendrils  spreading  all  about, 
Knitting  all  things  to  its  thrall 
With  a  perfect  love  of  all : 
O  stern  word  —  Nevermore  1 

He  did  but  float  a  little  way 
Adown  the  stream  of  time, 
With  dreamy  eyes  watching  the  ripples 

P'ay, 
Or  hearkening  their  fairy  chime  ; 
His  slender  sail 
Ne'er  felt  the  gale  ; 
He  did  but  float  a  little  way, 
And,  putting  to  the  shore 
While  yet  't  was  early  day, 
Went  calmly  on  his  way, 
To  dwell  with  us  no  more  ! 
No  jarring  did  he  feel, 
No  grating  on  his  vessel's  keel ; 
A  strip  of  silver  sand 
Mingled  the  waters  with  the  land 
Where  he  was  seen  no  more  : 
O  stern  word  —  Nevermore  ! 

Full  short  his  journey  was  ;  no  dust 
Of  earth  unto  his  sandals  clave  ; 
The  weary  weight  that  old  men  must, 
He  bore  not  to  the  grave. 
He  seemed  a  cherub  who  had  lost  his 

way 
And  wandered  hither,  so  his  stay 
With  us  was  short,  and 't  was  most  meet 
That  he  should  be  no  delver  in  earth's 

clod, 
Nor  need  to  pause  and  cleanse  his  feet 
To  stand  before  his  God  : 
O  blest  word  —  Evermore  1 
1839. 


THE  SIRENS. 

The  sea  is  lonely,  the  sea  is  dreary, 
The  sea  is  restless  and  uneasy  ; 
Thou  seekest  quiet,  thou  art  weary, 
Wandering   thou  knowest   not   whith- 
er ;  — 
Our  little  isle  is  green  and  breezy, 


Come  and  rest  thee  !  O  come  hither 
Come  to  this  peaceful  home  of  ours, 

Where  evermore 
The  low  west-wind  creeps  panting  up 

the  shore 
To  be  at  rest  among  the  flowers  ; 
Full  of  rest,  the  green  moss  lifts, 

As  the  dark  waves  of  the  sea 
Draw  in  and  out  of  rocky  rifts, 

Calling  solemnly  to  thee 
With  voices  deep  and  hollow,  — 
"  To  the  shore 
Follow  !  O,  follow  ! 
To  be  at  rest  forevermore  ! 
Forevermore  !  " 

Look  how  the  gray  old  Ocean 
From  the  depth  of  his  heart  rejoices, 
Heaving  with  a  gentle  motion, 
When  he  hears  our  restful  voices  ; 
List  how  he  sings  in  an  undertone, 
Chiming  with  our  melody  ; 
And  all  sweet  sounds  of  earth  and  air 
Melt  into  one  low  voice  alone, 
That  murmurs  over  the  weary  sea, 
And  seems  to  sing  from  everywhere,  — ■ 
"  Here  mayst  thou  harbor  peacefully, 
Here  mayst  thou  rest  from  the  aching 
oar  ; 
Turn  thy  curved  prow  ashore, 
And  in  our  green  isle  rest  forevermore  1 

Foreverrrfore  !  " 
And  Echo  half  wakes  in  the  wooded 
hill, 
And,  to  her  heart  so  calm  and  deep, 
Murmurs  over  in  her  sleep, 
Doubtfully  pausing  and  murmuring  still 
"  Evermore  !  " 

Thus,  on  Life's  weary  sea, 
Heareth  the  marinere 
Voices  sweet,  from  far  and  nea», 
Ever  singing  low  and  clear, 
Ever  singing  longingly. 

Is  it  not  better  here  to  be, 
Than  to  be  toiling  late  and  soon  ? 
In  the  dreary  night  to  see 
Nothing  but  the  blood-red  moon 
Go  up  and  down  into  the  sea  ; 
Or,  in  the  loneliness  of  day, 

To  see  the  still  seals  only 
Solemnly  lift  their  faces  gray, 

Making  it  yet  more  lonely? 
Is  it  not  better,  than  to  hear 


IRENE. 


Only  the  sliding  of  the  wave 
Beneath  the  plank,  and  feel  so  near 
A  cold  and  lonely  grave, 
A  restless  grave,  where  thou  shalt  lie 
Even  in  death  unquietly  ? 
Look    down  beneath  thy    wave-worn 
bark, 
Lean  over  the  side  and  see 
The  leaden  eye  of  the  sidelong  shark 
Upturned  patiently, 
Ever  waiting  there  for  thee : 
Look  down  and  see  those  shapeless 
forms, 
Which    ever  keep    their  dreamless 

sleep 
Far  down  within  the  gloomy  deep, 
And  only  stir  themselves  in  storms, 
Rising  like  islands  from  beneath, 
And  snorting  through  the  angry  spray, 
As  the  frail  vessel  perisheth 
In  the  whirls  of  their  unwieldy  play  ; 

Look  down  !     Look  down  ! 
Upon  the  seaweed,  slimy  and  dark, 
That  waves  its  arms  so  lank  and  brown, 

Beckoning  for  thee  ! 
Look    down    beneath   thy  wave-worn 
bark 
Into  the  cold  depth  of  the  sea  ! 
Look  down  !     Look  down  ! 

Thus,  on  Life's  lonely  sea, 
Heareth  the  marinere 
Voices  sad,  from  far  and  near, 
Ever  singing  full  of  fear, 
Ever  singing  drearfully. 

Here  all  is  pleasant  as  a  dream  ; 
The  wind  scarce  shaketh  down  the  dew, 
The  green  grass  floweth  like  a  stream 
Into  the  ocean's  blue  ; 
Listen  !  O,  listen  ! 
Here  is  a  gush  of  many  streams, 

A  song  of  many  birds, 
And  every  wish  and  longing  seems 
Lulled  to  a  numbered  flow  of  words,  — 

Listen  !  O,  listen  ! 
Here  ever  hum  the  golden  bees 
Underneath  full-blossomed  trees, 
At  once  with  glowing  fruit  and  flowers 

crowned  ;  — 
The  sand  is  so  smooth,  the  yellow  sand, 
That  thy  keel  will  not  grate  as  it  touches 

the  land  ; 
All  around  with  a  slumberous  sound, 
The  singing  waves  slide  up  the  strand, 


And  there,  where  the  smooth,  wet  peb- 
bles be, 
The  waters  gurgle  longingly, 
As  if  they  fain  would  seek  the  shore, 
To  be  at  rest  from  the  ceaseless  roar, 
To  be  at  rest  forevermore,  — 
Forevermore. 
Thus,  on  Life's  gloomy  sea, 
Heareth  the  marinere 
Voices  sweet,  from  far  and  near, 
Ever  singing  in  his  ear, 
"Here  is  rest  and  peace  for  thee!" 
NANTASKET,  July,  1840. 


IRENE. 


Hers  is  a  spirit  deep,  and  crystal- 
clear  ; 

Calmly  beneath  her  earnest  face  it  lies, 

Free  without  boldness,  meek  without  a 
fear, 

Quicker  to  look  than  speak  its  sympa- 
thies ; 

Far  down  into  her  large  and  patient 
eyes 

I  gaze,  deep-drinking  of  the  infinite, 

As,  in  the  mid-watch  of  a  clear,  still 
night, 

I  look  into  the  fathomless  blue  skies. 

So  circled  lives  she  with  Love's  holy 

light, 
That  from  the  shade  of  self  she  walketh 

free  ; 
The  garden  of  her  soul  still  keepeth 

she 
An  Eden  where  the  snake  did  never 

enter ; 
She  hath  a  natural,  wise  sincerity, 
A  simple  truthfulness,  and  these  have 

lent  her 
A  dignity  as  moveless  as  the  centre  ; 
So  that  no  influence  of  earth  can  stir 
Her  steadfast  courage,  nor  can  take 

away 
The    holy  peacefulness,  which,   night 

and  day, 
Unto  her  queenly  soul  doth  minister. 

Most  gentle  is  she  ;  her  large  charity 
(An  all  unwitting,  childlike  gift  in  her) 
Not  freer  is  to  give  than  meelt  to  bear  % 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


And,  though  herself  not  unacquaint 
with  care, 

Hath  in  her  heart  wide  room  for  all 
that  be,  — 

Her  heart  that  hath  no  secrets  of  its 
own, 

But«open  is  as  eglantine  full  blown. 

Cloudless  forever  is  her  brow  serene, 

Speaking  calm  hope  and  trust  within 
her,  whence 

Welleth  a  noiseless  spring  of  patience. 

That  keepeth  all  her  life  so  fresh,  so 
green 

And  full  of  holiness,  that  every  look, 

The  greatness  of  her  woman's  soul  re- 
vealing, 

Unto  me  bringeth  blessing,  and  a  feel- 
ing 

As  when  I  read  in  God's  own  holy 
book. 

A  graciousness  in  giving  that  doth 

make 
The  small'st  gift  greatest,  and  a  sense 

most  meek 
Of  worthiness,  that  doth  not  fear  to 

take 
From  others,  but  which  always  fears  to 

speak 
Its  thanks  in  utterance,  for  the  giver's 

sake  ;  — 
The  deep  religion  of  a  thankful  heart, 
Which  rests  instinctively  in  Heaven's 

clear  law 
With  a  full  peace,  that  never  can  de- 
part 
From  its  own  steadfastness  ;  —  a  holy 

awe 
For  holy  things,  —  not  those  which  men 

call  holy, 
But  such  as  are  revealed  to  the  eyes 
Of  a  true  woman's  soul  bent  down  and 

lowly 
Before  the  face  of  daily  mysteries  ;  — 
A  love  that  blossoms  soon,  bu't  ripens 

slowly 
To  the  full  goldenness  of  fruitful  prime, 
Enduring  with  a  firmness  that  defies 
All  shallow  tricks  of  circumstance  and 

time. 
By  a   sure  insight  knowing  where  to 

cling, 
And  where  it  clingeth  never  wither- 
ing;— 


These  are  Irene's  dowry,  which  no  fato 
Can  shake   from   their    serene,    deep- 
builded  state. 

In-seeing  sympathy   is  hers,  which 

chasteneth 
No  less  than  loveth,  scorning   to  bo 

bound 
With  fear  of  blame,  and  yet  which  ever 

hasteneth 
To  pour  the  balm  of  kind  looks  on  the 

wound, 
If  they  be  wounds  which  such  sweet 

teaching  makes, 
Giving  itself  a  pang  for  others'  sakes  ; 
No  want  of  faith,  that  chills  with  side- 
long eye, 
Hath  she  ;  no  jealousy,  no  Levite  pride 
That  passeth  by  upon  the  other  side  ; 
For  in  her  soul  there  never  dwelt  a  lie. 
Right  from  the  hand  of  God  her  spirit 

came 
Unstained,  and  she  hath  ne'er  forgotten 

whence 
It  came,  nor  wandered  far  from  thence, 
But  laboreth  to  keep  her  still  the  same, 
Near  to  her  place  of  birth,  that  she 

may  not 
Soil  her  white  raiment  with  an  earthly 

spot. 

Yet  sets  she  not  her  soul  so  steadily 
Above,    that   she    forgets  her  ties  to 

earth, 
But  her  whole  thought  would   almost 

seem  to  be 
How  to  make  glad  one  lowly  human 

hearth  ; 
For  with   a  gentle  courage  she  doth 

strive 
In  thought  and  word  and  feeling  so  to 

live 
As  to  make  earth  next  heaven  ;  and 

her  heart 
Herein  doth  show  its  most  exceeding 

worth, 
That,   bearing   in  our  frailty  her  just 

part, 
She  hath  not  shrunk  from  evils  of  this 

life, 
But  hath   gone  calmly  forth  into  the 

strife, 
And  all  its  sins  and  sorrows  hath  with- 
stood 


SERENADE.— WITH  A    PRESSED  FLOWER. 


With  lofty  strength  of  patient  woman- 
hood : 

For  this  I  love  her  great  soul  more  than 
all, 

That,  being  bound,  like  us,  with  earthly 
thrall, 

She  walks  so  bright  and  heaven-like 
therein,  — 

Too  wise,  too  meek,  too  womanly,  to 
sin. 

Like  a  lone  star  through  riven  storm- 
clouds  seen 

By  sailors,  tempest-tost  upon  the  sea, 

Telling  of  rest  and  peaceful  heavens 
nigh, 

Unto  my  soul  her  star-like  soul  hath 
been, 

Her  sight  as  full  of  hope  and  calm  to 
me  ;  — 

For  she  unto  herself  hath  builded  high 

A  home  serene,  wherein  to  lay  her 
head, 

F.arth's  noblest  thing,  a  Woman  per- 
fected. 
1S40. 


SERENADE. 

From  the  close-shut  windows  gleams 

no  spark, 
The  night  is  chilly,  the  night  is  dark, 
The  poplars  shiver,  the  pine- trees  moan, 
My  hair  by  the  autumn  breeze  is  blown, 
Under  thy  window  I  sing  alone, 
Alone,  alone,  ah  woe  !  alone  1 

The  darkness  is  pressing  coldly  around, 
The  windows  shake  with  a  lonely  sound, 
The  stars  are  hid  and  the  night  is  drear, 
The  heart  of  silence  throbs  in  thine  ear, 
In  thy  chamber  thou  sittest  alone, 
Alone,  alone,  ah  woe  !  alone  ! 

The  world  is  happy,  the  world  is  wide, 
Kind  hearts  are  beating  on  every  side  ; 
Ah,  why  should  we  lie  so  coldly  curled 
Alone  in  the  shell  of  this  great  world  ? 
Why  should  we  any  more  be  alone  ? 
Alone,  alone,  ah  woe  I  alone  ! 

O,  't  is  a  bitter  and  dreary  word, 
The  saddest  by  man's  ear  ever  heard  ! 


We  eacli   are  young,  we  each  have  a 
heart, 

Why  stand  we  ever  coldly  apart  ? 
Must  we  forever,  then,  be  alone  ? 
Alone,  alone,  ah  woe  !  alone  ! 
1840. 


WITH  A  PRESSED  FLOWER. 

This  little  blossom  from  afar 
Hath  come  from  other  lands  to  thine  ; 
For,  once,  its  white  and  drooping  star 
Could  see  its  shadow  in  the  Rhine. 

Perchance    some   fair-haired    German 

maid 
Hath  plucked  one  from  the  self-same 

stalk, 
And  numbered  over,  half  afraid, 
Its  petals  in  her  evening  walk. 

"  He    loves  me,   loves  me  not,"  she 

cries  ; 
"  He   loves  me    more  than  earth  or 

heaven  !  " 
And  then  glad  tears  have   filled  her 

eyes 
To  find  the  number  was  uneven. 

And  thou  must  count  its  petals  well, 
Because  it  is  a  gift  from  me  : 
And  the  last  one  of  all  shall  tell 
Something  I  've  often  told  to  thee. 

But  here  at  home,  where  we  were  bom, 
Thou  wilt  find  flowers  just  as  true, 
Down-bending  every  summer  morn, 
With  freshness  of  New- England  dew. 

For  Nature,  ever  kind  to  love, 

Hath    granted  them   the  same  sweet 

tongue, 
Whether  with  German  skies  above, 
Or  here  our  granite  rocks  among. 
1840. 


THE  BEGGAR. 

A  beggar  through  the  world  am  I,  — ■ 
From  place  to  place  I  wander  by. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Fill  up  my  pilgrim's  scrip  for  me, 
For  Christ's  sweet  sake  and  charity  ! 

A  little  of  thy  steadfastness, 
Rounded  with  leafy  gracefulness, 
Old  oak,  give  me,  — 
That  the  world's  blasts  may  round  me 

blow, 
And  I  yield  gently  to  and  fro. 
While  my  stout-hearted  trunk  below 
And  firm-set  roots  unshaken  be. 

Some  of  thy  stern,  unyielding  might, 
Enduring  still  through  day  and  night 
Rude    tempest  -  shock    and   withering 

blight,  — 
That  I  may  keep  at  bay 
The  changeful  April  sky  of  chance 
And  the  strong  tide  of  circumstance,  — 
Give  me,  old  granite  gray, 

Some  of  thy  pensiveness  serene, 
Some  of  thy  never-dying  green, 
Put  in  this  scrip  of  mine,  — 
That  griefs  may  fall  like  snow-flakes 

light, 
And  deck  me  in  a  robe  of  white, 
Ready  to  be  an  angel  bright,  — 

0  sweetly  mournful  pine. 

A  little  of  thy  merriment, 
Of  thy  sparkling,  light  content, 
Give  me,  my  cheerful  brook,  — 
That  I  may  still  be  full  of  glee 
And  gladsomeness,  where'er  I  be, 
Though  fickle  fate  hath  prisoned  me 
In  some  neglected  nook. 

Ye  have  been  very  kind  and  good 
To  me,  since  I  've  been  in  the  wood  ; 
Ye  have  gone  nigh  to  fill  my  heart ; 
But  good  by,  kind  friends,  every  one, 

1  've  far  to  go  ere  set  of  sun  ; 

Of  all  good  things  I  would  have  part, 
The  day  was  high  ere  I  could  start, 
And  so  my  journey  's  scarce  begun. 

Heaven  help  me  !  how  could  I  forget 
To  beg  of  thee,  dear  violet  1 
Some  of  thy  modesty, 
That  blossoms  he/e  as  well,  unseen, 
As  if  before  the  world  thou  'dst  been, 
O,  give,  to  strengthen  me. 
1839. 


MY  LOVE. 


Not  as  all  other  women  are 
Is  she  that  to  my  soul  is  dear ; 
Her  glorious  fancies  come  from  far, 
Beneath  the  silver  evening-star, 
And  yet  her  heart  is  ever  near. 


Great  feelings  hath  she  of  her  own, 
Which  lesser  souls  may  never  know : 
God  giveth  them  to  her  alone, 
And  sweet  they  are  as  any  tone 
Wherewith  the  wind  may  choose  to 
blow. 

in. 
Yet  in  herself  she  dwelleth  not, 
Although  no  home  were  half  so  fair ; 
No  simplest  duty  is  forgot, 
Life  hath  no  dim  and  lowly  spot 
That  doth  not  in  her  sunshine  share. 


She  doeth  little  kindnesses, 

Which  most  leave  undone,  or  despise  ; 

For  naught  that  sets  one  heart  at  ease, 

And  giveth  happiness  or  peace, 

Is  low-esteemed  in  her  eyes. 

v. 

She  hath  no  scorn  of  common  things, 
And,  though  she  seem  of  other  birth, 
Round    us    her    heart    intwines    and 

clings, 
And  patiently  she  folds  her  wings 
To  tread  the  humble  paths  of  earth. 


Blessing  she  is  :  God  made  her  so, 
And  deeds  of  week-day  holiness 
Fall  from  her  noiseless  as  the  snow, 
Nor  hath  she  ever  chanced  to  know 
That  aught  were  easier  than  to  bless. 


She  is  most  fair,  and  thereunto 
Her  life  doth  rightly  harmonize  ; 
Feeling  or  thought  that  was  not  true 
Ne'er  made  less  beautiful  the  blue 
Unclouded  heaven  of  her  eyes. 


SUMMER   STORM. 


VIII. 

She  is  a  woman  :  one  in  whom 
The  spring-time  of  her  childish  years 
Hath  never  lost  its  fresh  perfume. 
Though  knowingwell  that  life  bath  room 
For  many  blights  and  many  tears. 


I  love  her  with  a  love  as  still 
As  a  broad  river's  peaceful  might, 
Which,  by  high  tower  and  lowly  mill, 
Goes  wandering  at  its  own  will, 
And  yet  doth  ever  flow  aright. 


And,  on  its  full,  deep  breast  serene, 
Like  quiet  isles  my  duties  lie  ; 
It  flows  around  them  and  between, 
And  makesthem  fresh  and  fair  and  green, 
Sweet  homes  wherein  to  live  and  die. 
1840. 


SUMMER  STORM. 

Untremulous  in  the  river  clear, 
Toward  the  sky's  image,  hangs  the  im- 
aged bridge  ; 
So  still  the  air  that  I  can  hear 
Theslenderclarion  of  the  unseen  midge  ; 
Out  of  the  stillness,  with  a  gathering 
creep, 
Like  rising  wind  in  leaves,  which  now 

decreases, 
Now  lulls,  now  swells,  and  all  the  while 
increases, 
The  huddling  trample  of  a  drove  of 
sheep 
Tilts  the  loose  planks,  and  then  as  grad- 
ually ceases 
In  dust  on  the  other  side  ;  life's  em- 
blem deep, 
A  confused  noise  between  two  silences, 
Finding  at  last  in  dust  precarious  peace. 
On  the  wide   marsh   the   purple-blos- 
somed grasses 
Soak  up   the   sunshine ;   sleeps  the 
brimming  tide, 
Save  when  the  wedge-shaped  wake  in 
silence  passes 
Of  some  slow  water-rat,  whose  sinu- 
ous glide 
Wavers  the  long  green  sedge's  shade 
from  side  to  side  ; 


But  up  the  west,  like  a  rock-shivered 
surge, 
Climbs  a  great  cloud  edged  with  sun- 
whitened  spray ; 
Huge  whirls  of  foam  boil  toppling  o'er 
its  verge, 
And  falling  still  it  seems,  and  yet  it 
climbs  alway. 

Suddenly  all  the  sky  is  hid 
As  with  the  shutting  of  a  lid. 
One  by  one  great  drops  are  falling 

Doubtful  and  slow, 
Down  the  pane  they  are  crookedly 
crawling. 
And  the  wind  breathes  low  ; 
Slowly  the  circles  widen  on  the  river, 

Widen  and  mingle,  one  and  all  ; 
Here  and  there  the  slenderer  flowers 
shiver, 
Struck  by  an  icy  rain-drop's  fall. 

Now  on  the  hills  I   hear   the  thunder 
mutter, 
The  wind  is  gathering  in  the  west ; 
The  upturned  leaves  first  whiten   and 
flutter, 
Then  droop  to  a  fitful  rest ; 
Up  from  the  stream  with  sluggish  flap 
Struggles  the  gull  and  floats  away  ; 
Nearer  and  nearer  rolls  the  thunder- 
clap, — 
We  shall  not  see  the  sun  go  down  to- 
day : 
Nowleapsthewind  on  the  sleepy  marsh, 
And  tramples  the  grass  with  terrified 
feet, 
Thestartled  river  turnsleadenandharsh. 
You  can  hear  the  quick  heart  of  the 
tempest  beat. 

Look  !  look  !  that  livid  flash  ! 
And  instantly  follows  the  rattling  thun- 
der, 
As  if  some  cloud-crag,  split  asunder, 
Fell,    splintering   with    a    ruinous 
crash, 
On  the  Earth,  which  crouches  in  silence 
under  ; 
And  now  a  solid  gray  wall  of  rain 
Shuts  off  the  landscape,  mile  by  mile  ; 
For  a  breath's  space  I  see  the  blue 
wood  again, 


8 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS- 


And,  ere  the  next  heart-beat,  the  wind- 

hurlsd  pile, 

That  seemed  but  now  a  league  aloof, 

Bursts  crackling  o'er  the  sun-parched 

roof; 

Against  the  windows  the  storm  comes 

dashing, 
Through  tattered  foliage  the  hail  tears 
crashing, 

The  blue  lightning  flashes, 
The  rapid  hail  clashes, 
The  White  waves  are  tumbling, 

And,  in  one  baffled  roar, 
Like  the  toothless  sea  mumbling 

A  rock-bristled  shore, 
The  thunder  is  rumbling 
And  crashing  and  crumbling,  — 
Will  silence  return  never  more  ? 

Hush  !     Still  as  death, 
The  tempest  holds  his  breath 
As  from  a  sudden  will ; 
The  rain  stopsshort,  but  from  the  eaves 
You  see  it  drop,  and  hear  it  from  the 
leaves, 
All  is  so  bodingly  still ; 
Again,  now,  now,  again 
Plashes  the  rain  in  heavy  gouts, 
The  crinkled  lightning 
Seems  ever  brightening, 
And  loud  and  long 
Again  the  thunder  shouts 
His  battle-song,  — 
One  quivering  flash, 
One  wildering  crash, 
Followed  by  silence  dead  and  dull, 
As  if  the  cloud,  let  go, 
Leapt  bodily  below 
To  whelm  the  earth  in  one  mad  over- 
throw, 
And  then  a  total  lull. 

Gone,  gone,  so  soon  ! 
No  more  my  half-crazed  fancy  there 
Can  shape  a  giant  in  the  air, 
No  more  I  see  his  streaming  hair, 
The  writhing  portent  of  his  form  ;  — 
The  pale  and  quiet  moon 
Makes  her  calm  forehead  bare, 
And  the  last  fragments  of  the  storm, 
Like  shattered  rigging  from  a  fight  at  sea, 
Silent  and  few,  are  drifting  over  me. 

1839- 


LOVE. 

True  Love  is  but  a  humble,  low-bora 
thing, 

And  hath  its  food  served  up  in  earthen 
ware  ; 

It  is  a  thing  to  walk  with,  hand  in  hand. 

Through  the  every-daynessof  thiswork- 
day  world, 

Baring  its  tender  feet  to  every  rough- 
ness, 

Yet  letting  not  one  heart-beat  go  astray 

From   Beauty's  law  of  plainness  and 
content ; 

A  simple,  fireside  thing,  whose  quiet 
smile 

Can  warm  earth's  poorest  hovel  to  a 
home ; 

Which,  when  our  autumn  cometh,  as  it 
must, 

And  life  in  the  chill  wind  shivers  bare 
and  leafless, 

Shall  still  be  blest  with  Indian-summer 
youth 

In  bleak  November,  and,  with  thank- 
ful heart, 

Smile  on  its  ample  stores  of  garnered 
fruit, 

As  full  of  sunshine  to  our  aged  eyes 

As  when  it  nursed  the  blossoms  of  our 
spring. 

Such  is  true  Love,  which  steals  into 
the  heart 

With  feet  as  silent  as  the  lightsome 
dawn 

That  kisses  smooth  the  rough  brows 
of  the  dark, 

And  hath  its  will  through  blissful  gen- 
tleness, — 

Not  like  a  rocket,  which,  with  savage 
glare, 

Whirs  suddenly  up,  then  bursts,  and 
leaves  the  night 

Painfully  quivering  on  the  dazed  eyes ; 

A  love  that  gives  and  takes,  that  seeth 
faults, 

Not  with  flaw-seeking  eyes  like  needle 
points, 

But    lovirig-kindly    ever    looks    them 
down 

With  the  o'ercoming  faith  of  meek  for- 
giveness ; 

A  love  that  shall  be  new  and  fresh  each 
hour, 


TO  PERDtTA,   SINGING. 


As  is  the  golden  mystery  of  sunset, 
Or  the  sweet  coming  of  the  evening 

star, 
Alike,  and  yet  most  unlike,  every  day, 
And  seeming  ever  best  and  fairest  fioiu; 
A  love  that  doth  not  kneel  for  what  it 

seeks, 
But  faces  Truth  and  Beauty  as  their 

peer. 
Showing     its    worthiness     of     noble 

thoughts 
By  a  clear  sense  of  inward  nobleness  ; 
A  love  that  in  its  object  findeth  not 
All  grace  and  beauty,  and  enough  to 

sate 
Its  thirst  of  blessing,  but,  in  all  of  good 
Found  there,  it  sees  but  Heaven-grant- 
ed types 
Of  good  and  beauty  in  the  soul  of  man, 
And  traces,  in  the  simplest  heart  that 

beats, 
A  family-likeness  to  its  chosen  one, 
That  claims  of  it  the  rights  of  brother- 
hood. 
For  love  is  blind  but  with  the  fleshly 

eye, 
That  so  its  inner  sight  may  be  more 

clear  ; 
And  outward  shows  of  beauty  only  so 
Are  needful  at  the  first,  as  is  a  hand 
To  guide   and   to  uphold  an  infant's 

steps  : 
Great  spirits  need  them  not :  their  ear- 
nest look 
Pierces  the  body's  mask  of  thin  dis1 

guise, 
And  beauty  ever  is  to  them  revealed, 
Behind  the  unshapeliest,  meanest  lump 

of  clay, 
With  arms  outstretched  and  eager  face 

ablaze, 
Yearning   to   be  but  understood  and 
loved. 
1840.  


TO   PERDITA,   SINGING. 

Thv  voice  is  like  a  fountain, 

Leaping  up  in  clear  moonshine  ; 
Silver,  silver,  ever  mounting, 
Ever  sinking, 
Without  thinking, 
To  that  brimful  heart  of  thine. 


Every  sad  and  happy  feeling, 
Thou  hast  had  in  bygone  years, 
Through  thy  lips  comes  stealing,  steal- 
ing, 
Clear  and  low  ; 
All  thy  smiles  and  all  thy  tears 
Jn  thy  voice  awaken, 
And  sweetness,  wove  of  joy  and  woe, 
From  their  teaching  it  hath  taken  : 
Feeling  and  music  move  together, 
Like  a  swan  and  shadow  ever 
Floating  on  a  sky-blue  river 
In  a  day  of  cloudless  weather. 

It  hath  caught  a  touch  of  sadness, 

Yet  it  is  not  sad; 
It  hath  tones  of  clearest  gladness, 

Yet  it  is  not  glad  ; 
A  dim,  sweet  twilight  voice  it  is 

Where  to-day's  accustomed  blue 
Is  over-grayed  with  memories, 
With  starry  feelingsquivered  through. 

Thy  voice  is  like  a  fountain 
Leaping  up  in  sunshine  bright. 

And  I  never  weary  counting 
Its  clear  droppings,  lone  and  single, 
Or  when  in  one  full  gush  they  mingle. 

Shooting  in  melodious  light. 

Thine  is  music  such  as  yields 
Feelings  of  old  brooks  and  fields, 
And,  around  this  pent-up  room, 
Sheds  a  woodland,  free  perfume  ; 
O,  thus  forever  sing  to  me  1 
O,  thus  forever ! 
The  green,  bright  grass  of  childhood 
bring  to  me, 
Flowing  like  an  emerald  river, 
And  the  bright  blue  skies  above  ! 
O,  sing  them  back,  as  fresh  as  ever, 
Into  the  bosom  of  my  love,  — 
The  sunshine  and  the  merriment, 
The  unsought,  evergreen  content. 

Of  that  never  cold  time, 
The  joy,   that,  like  a  clear  breeze, 
went 
Through  and  through  the  old  time  ! 

Peace  sits  within  thine  eyes, 

With  white  hands  crossed  in  joyful 

rest, 
While,   through   thy  lips  and  facei 

arise 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


The  melodies  from  out  thy  breast ; 

She  sits  and  sings, 

With  folded  wings 

And  white  arms  crost, 
"  Weep  not  for  bygone  things, 

They  are  not  lost : 
The  beauty  which  the  summer  time 
O'er  thine  opening  spirit  shed, 
The  forest  oracles  sublime 
That  filled  thy  soul  with  joyous  dread, 
The  scent  of  every  smallest  flower 
That  made  thy  heart  sweet  for  an 

hour,  — 
Yea,  every  holy  influence, 
Flowing  to  thee,  thou  knewest  not 

whence, 
In  thine  eyes  to-day  is  seen, 
Fresh  as  it  hath  ever  been  ; 
Promptings  of  Nature,   beckonings 

sweet, 
Whatever  led  thy  childish  feet, 
Still  will  linger  unawares 
The  guiders  of  thy  silver  hairs ; 
Every  look  and  every  word 
Which  thou  givest  forth  to-day, 
Tell  of  the  singing  of  the  bird 
Whose    music     stilled     thy    boyish 
play." 

Thy  voice  is  like  a  fountain, 
Twinkling  up  in  sharp  starlight, 
When  the  moon  behind  the  mountain 
Dims    the    low   East    with    faintest 
white, 
Ever  darkling. 
Ever  sparkling, 
We  know  not  if  't  is  dark  or  bright ; 
But,  when  the  great  moon  hath  rolled 
round, 
And,  sudden-slow,  its  solemn  power 
Grows   from   behind   its   black,   clear- 
edged  bound, 
No  spot  of  dark  the  fountain  keepeth, 
But,  swift  as  opening  eyelids,  leapeth 
Into  a  waving  silver  flower. 


THE   MOON. 

My  soul  was  like  the  sea, 
Before  the  moon  was  made. 
Moaning  in  vague  immensity, 
Of  its  own  strength  afraid, 
Unrestful  and  unstaid. 


Through  every  rift  it  foamed  in  vain, 

About  its  earthly  prison, 
Seeking  some  unknown  thing  in  pain, 
And  sinking  restless  back  again, 

For  yet  no  moon  had  risen  : 
Its  only  voice  a  vast  dumb  moan, 

Of  utterless  anguish  speaking, 
It  lay  unhopefully  alone, 

And  lived  but  in  an  aimless  seeking. 

So  was  my  soul ;  but  when  't  was  full 

Of  unrest  to  o'erloading, 
A  voice  of  something  beautiful 

Whispered  a  dim  foreboding, 
And  yet  so  soft,  so  sweet,  so  low, 
It  had  not  more  of  joy  than  woe ; 
And,  as  the  sea  doth  oft  lie  still, 

Making  its  waters  meet, 
As  if  by  an  unconscious  will, 

For  the  moon's  silver  feet, 
So  lay  my  soul  within  mine  eyes 
When  thou,  its  guardian  moon,  didst 
rise. 

And  now,  howe'er  its  waves  above 
May  toss  and  seem  uneaseful, 

One  strong,  eternal  law  of  Love, 
With  guidance  sure  and  peaceful, 

As  calm  and  natural  as  breath, 

Moves  its  great  deeps  through  life  and 
death. 


REMEMBERED  MUSIC. 

A   FRAGMENT. 

Thick-rushing,  like  an  ocean  vast 
Of  bisons  the  far  prairie  shaking, 
The  notes  crowd  heavily  and  fast 
As  surfs,  one  plunging  while  the  last 
Draws  seaward  from  its  foamy  break- 
ing. 

Or  in  low  murmurs  they  began, 
Rising  and  rising  momently, 
As  o'er  a  harp  ^Eolian 
A  fitful  breeze,  until  they  ran 
Up  to  a  sudden  ecstasy. 

And  then,  like  minute-drops  of  rain 
Ringing  in  water  silverly, 


i 


SONG.  —  ALLEGRA.—  THE  FO UNTA SJY. 


They  lingering  dropped  and  dropped 

again. 
Till  it  was  almost  like  a  pain 

To  listen  when  the  next  would  be. 
1840. 


SONG. 

TO   M.    L. 

A  lily  thou  wast  when  I  saw  thee  first, 
A  lily-bud  not  opened  quite, 
That  hourly  grew  more  pure  and 
white, 
By  morning,  and  noontide,  and  evening 
nursed  : 
In  all  of  nature  thou  hadst  thy  share  ; 
Thou  wast  waited  on 
By  the  wind  and  sun  ; 
The  rain  and  the  dewfor  thee  took  care; 
It  seemed  thou  never  couldst  be  more 
fair. 

A  lily  thou  wast  when  I  saw  thee  first, 
A  lily-bud  ;  but  O,  how  strange, 
How  full  of  wonder  was  the  change, 
Wheu,  ripe  with  all  sweetness,  thy  full 
bloom  burst ! 
How  did  the  tearsto  my  glad  eyesstart, 
When  the  woman-flower 
Reached  its  blossoming  hour, 
And   I   saw  the   warm    deeps  of  thy 
golden  heart  ! 

Glad  death  may  pluck  thee,  but  never 
before 
The  gold  dust  of  thy  bloom  divine 
Hath  dropped  from  thy  heart  into 
mine, 
To  quicken  its  faint  germs  of  heavenly 
lore; 
For  no  breeze  comes  nigh  thee  but 
carries  away 

Some  impulses  bright 
Of  fragrance  and  light, 
Which  fall  upon  souls  that  are  lone 

and  astray, 
To  plant  fruitful  hopes  of  the  flower 
of  day. 


ALLEGRA. 

I  would  more  natures  were  like  thine, 
That  never  casts  a  glance  before,  — 


Thou  Hebe,  who  thy  heart's  bright  wine 
So  lavishly  to  all  dost  pour, 

That  we  who  drink  forget  to  pine, 
And  can  but  dream  of  bliss  in  store. 

Thou  canst  not  see  a  shade  in  life  ; 

With  sunward  instinct  thou  dost  rise, 
And,  leaving  clouds  below  at  strife, 

Gazest  undazzled  at  the  skies, 
With  all  their  blazing  splendors  rife, 

A  songful  lark  with  eagle's  eyes. 

Thou  wast  some  foundling  whom  the 
Hours 
Nursed,  laughing,  with  the  milk  of 
Mirth; 
Some  influence  more  gay  than  ours 

Hath  ruled  thy  nature  from  its  birth, 
As  if  thy  natal  stars  were  flowers 
That  shook  their  seeds  round  thee  on 
earth. 

And  thou,  to  lull  thine  infant  rest, 
Wast  cradled  like  an  Indian  child  ; 

All  pleasant  winds  from  south  and  west 
With  lullabies  thine  ears  beguiled, 

Rocking  thee  in  thine  oriole's  nest, 
Till  Nature  looked  at  thee  and  smiled. 

Thine  every  fancy  seems  to  borrow 
A  sunlight  from  thy  childish  years, 

Making  a  golden  cloud  of  sorrow, 
A  hope-lit  rainbow  out  of  tears,  — 

Thy  heart  is  certain  of  to-morrow, 
Though  'yond  to-day  it  never  peers. 

I  would  more  natures  were  like  thine, 
So  innocently  wild  and  free, 

Whose  sad   thoughts,  even,  leap  and 
shine, 
Like  sunny  wavelets  in  the  sea, 

Making  us  mindless  of  the  brine, 
In  gazing  on  the  brilliancy. 


THE  FOUNTAIN. 

Into  the  sunshine, 
Full  of  the  light, 

Leaping  and  flashing 
From  morn  till  night  1 

Into  the  moonlight, 
Whiter  than  kiow, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Waving  so  flower-like 
When  the  winds  blow  ! 

Into  the  starlight 
Rushing  in  spray, 

Happy  at  midnight, 
Happy  by  day ! 

Ever  in  motion, 

Blithesome  and  cheery, 
Still  climbing  heavenward, 

Never  aweary ;  — 

Glad  of  all  weathers, 
Still  seeming  best, 

Upward  or  downward, 
Motion  thy  rest ;  — 

Full  of  a  nature 
Nothing  can  tame, 

Changed  every  moment, 
Ever  the  same ;  — 

Ceaseless  aspiring, 
Ceaseless  content, 

Darkness  or  sunshine 
Thy  element ;  — 

Glorious  fountain ! 

Let  my  heart  be 
Fresh,  changeful,  constant, 

Upward,  like  thee  1 


ODE 


In  the  old  days  of  awe  and  keen-eyed 
wonder, 
The    Poet's  song  with  blood-warm 
truth  was  rife  ; 
He  saw  the  mysteries  which  circle  under 
The  outwardshell  and  skin  of  daily  life. 
Nothing  to  him  were  fleeting  time  and 
fashion, 
His  soul  was  led  by  the  eternal  law  ; 
There  was  in  him  no  hope  of  fame,  no 
passion, 
But,  with  calm,  godlike  eyes  he  only 
saw. 
He  did  not  sigh  o'er  heroes  dead  and 
buried, 


Chief-mourner  at  the  Golden  Age's 
hearse, 
Nor  deem  that  souls  whom   Charon 
grim  had  ferried 
Alone  were  fitting  themesofepic  verse: 
He  could  believe    the    promise  of  to- 
morrow, 
And  feel  the  wondrous  meaning  of  to- 
day ; 
He  had  a  deeper  faith  in  holy  sorrow 
Than  the  world's  seeming  loss  could 
take  away. 
To  know  the  heart  of  all  things  was  his 

duty, 
.     All  things  did  sing  to  him  to  make 

him  wise, 
And,  with  a  sorrowful  and  conquering 
beauty, 
The  soul  of  all  looked  grandly  from 
his  eyes. 
He  gazed  on  all  within  him  and  without 
him, 
He  watched  the  flowing  of  Time's 
steady  tide, 
And  shapes  of  glory  floated  allabouthim 
And    whispered    to     him,     and    he 
prophesied. 
Than  all  men  he  more  fearless  was  and 
freer, 
And  all  his  brethren  cried  with  one 
accord, — 
"Behold   the  holy  man!     Behold  the 
Seer  ! 
Him  who  hath  spoken  with  the  unseen 
Lord  ! " 
He  to  his  heart  with  large  embrace  had 
taken 
The  universal  sorrow  of  mankind, 
And,  from  that    root,    a   shelter  never 
shaken, 
The  tree  of  wisdom  grew  with  sturdy 
rind. 
He  could  interpret  well  the  wondrous 
voices 
Which  to  the  calm  and  silent  spirit 
come ; 
He  knew  that  the  One  Soul  no  more 
rejoices 
In  the  star's  anthem  than  the  insect's 
hum. 
He  in  his  heart  was   ever  meek  and 
humble, 
And  yet  with  kingly  pomp  his  num- 
bers ran, 


ODE. 


n 


As  he  foresaw  how  all    things    false 
should  crumble 
Before  the  free,  uplifted  soul  of  man  : 
And,  when  he  was  made  full   to  over- 
flowing 
With  all  the  loveliness  of  heaven  and 
earth, 
Out  rushed  his  song,   like  molten  iron 
glowing, 
To  show  God  sitting  by  the  humblest 
hearth. 
With  calmest  courage  he  was  ever  ready 
To  teach  that  action  was  the  truth  of 
thought, 
And,  with  strong  arm  and  purpose  firm 
and  steady, 
An  anchor  for  the  drifting  world  he 
wrought. 
Sodid  he  make  the  meanest  man  partaker 
Of  all  hisbrother-godsunto  him  gave  ; 
All  souls  did  reverence  him  and  name 
him  Maker, 
And  when  he  died  heaped  temples  on 
his  grave. 
And  still  his  deathless  words  of  light 
are  swimming 
Serene  throughout  the  great  deep  in- 
finite 
Of  human  soul,  unwaning  and  undim- 
ming, 
To  cheer  and  guide  the  mariner  at 
night. 


But  now  the  Poet  is  an  empty  rhymer 
Who  lies  with  idle  elbow  on  the  grass, 
And  fits  his  singing,  1  ike  acunningtimer, 
To  all  men's  prides  and   fancies  as 
they  pass. 
Nothisthe  song,  which,  in  its  metreholy. 
Chimes  with  the  music  of  the  eternal 
stars, 
Humbling  the  tyrant,  liftingup  the  lowlv, 
And  sending  sun  through  the  soul's 
prison-bars. 
Maker   no   more,  —  O    no  !    unmaker 
rather, 
For  he  unmakes  who  doth  not  all  put 
forth 
The  power  given  by  our  loving  Father 
To  show  the  body's  dross,  the  spirit's 
worth. 
Awake  1  great  spirit  of  the  ages  olden  ! 
Shiver  the  mists  that  hide  thy  starry 
lyre, 


And  let  man's  soul  be  yet  again  beholden 
To  thee  for  wings  to  soar  to  her  desire. 
O,  prophesy  no  more  tomorrow's  splen- 
dor, 
Be  no  more  shamefaced  to  speak  out 
for  Truth, 
Lay  on  her  altar  all  the  gushings  tender, 
The  hope,  the  fire,  the  loving  faith  of 
youth  ! 
O,    prophesy   no    more    the    Maker's 
coming, 
Say  not   his   onward  footsteps  thou 
canst  hear 
In  the  dim  void,  like  to  the  awful  hum- 
ming 
Of  the  great  wings  of  some  new-light- 
ed sphere  ! 
O,  prophesy  no  more,  but  be  the  Poet ! 
Thislongingwasbut  gran  ted  unto  thee 
That,  when  all  beauty  thou  couldst  feel 
and  know  it, 
That  beauty  inits  highest  thou  couldst 
be. 
O,  thou  who  moanest  tost  with  sealike 
longings 
Who  dimly  hearest  voicescall  on  thee, 
Whose  soul  is  overfilled  with  mighty 
throngings 
Of  love,  and  fear,  and  glorious  agony, 
Thou  of  the  toil-strung  hands  and  iron 
sinews 
And  soul  by  Mother  Earth  with  free- 
dom fed, 
In  whom  the  hero-spirit  yet  continues, 
The  old  free  nature  is  not  chained  or 
dead, 
Arouse  !  let  thy  soul  break  in  music- 
thunder, 
Let  loose  the  ocean  that  is  in  thee 
pent, 
Pour  forth  thy  hope,  thy  fear,  thy  love, 
thy  wonder, 
And  tell  the  age  what  all  its  signs 
have  meant. 
Where'er  thy  wildered  crowd  of  breth- 
ren jostles, 
Where'er  there  lingers  but  a  shade  of 
wrong, 
There    still    is    need    of  martyrs    and 
apostles, 
There  still  are  texts  for  never-dying 
song  : 
From  age  toage  man's  still  aspiring  spirit 
Finds  wider  scope    and    sees    with 
clearer  eyes, 


'4 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 


And  thou  in  larger  measure  dost  inherit 
What  made  thy  great  forerunners  free 
and  wise. 
Sit  thou  enthroned  where  the   Poet's 
mountain 
Above  the  thunder  lifts  itssilent  peak, 
And  roll  thy  songs  down  like  a  gather- 
ing fountain, 
They  all  may  drink  and  find  the  rest 
they  seek. 
Sing  !  there  shall  silence  grow  in  earth 
and  heaven, 
A  silence  of  deep  awe  and  wondering  ; 
For,  listening  gladly,  bend  the  angels, 
even, 
To  hear  a  mortal  like  an  angel  sing. 


Among  the  toil-worn  poor  my  soul  is 
seeking 
For  one  to  bring  the  Maker's  name  to 
light, 
Tobethevoiceofthat  almighty  speaking 
Which  every  age  demands  to  do  it 
right.    ■ 
Proprieties  our  silken  bards  environ  ; 
He  who  would  be  the  tongue  of  this 
wide  land 
Must  string  his  harp   with   chords  of 
sturdy  iron 
And  strike  it  with  a  toil-imbrowned 
hand ; 
One  who  hath  dwelt  with  Nature  well 
attended, 
Who  hath  learnt  wisdom  from   her 
mystic  books, 
Whose  soul  with  all  her  countless  lives 
hath  blended, 
So  that  all  beauty  awes  us  in  hislooks  ; 
Who  not  with  body's  waste  his  soul 
hath  pampered, 
Who  as  the  clear  northwestern  wind 
is  free, 
Who  walks  with  Form's  observances 
unhampered, 
And  follows  the  One  Will  obediently  ; 
Whose  eyes,  like  windows  on  a  breezy 
summit, 
Control  a  lovely  prospect  every  way  : 
Who  doth  not  sound  God's  sea  with 
earthly  plummet, 
And  find  a  bottom  still  of  worthless 
clay; 


Who  heeds  not  how  the  lower  gu;    ,44,4 
working, 
Knowing  that  one  sure  wind  b\<  ys  on 
above, 
And   sees,   beneath    the    foulest  faces 
lurking, 
One  God-built   shrine   of  reverence 
and  love ; 
Who   sees  all   stars   that   whuel   their 
shining  marches 
Around  the  centre  fixed  of  Destiny, 
Where  the  encircling  soul  (,-rene  o'er- 
arches 
The  moving  globe  of  bei-  ,g  like  a  sky  ; 
Who  feels  that  God  and  Heaven's  great 
deeps  are  nearer 
Him  to  whose  heart  Lis  fellow-man  is 
nigh, 
Who  doth  not  hold  h.s  soul's  own  free- 
dom dearer 
Than  that  of  all  '.lis  brethren,  low  or 
high  ; 
Who  to  the  Rigt.<  can  feel  himself  the 
truer 
For  being  gently   patient  with  the 
wrong, 
Who  sees  a  brother  in  the  evildoer, 
And  finds  in  Love  the  heart's-blood 
of  his  song  ;  — 
This,  this  is  he  for  whom  the  world  is 
waiting 
Tosing the beatingsofits mighty  heart, 
Too  long  hath  it  been  patient  with  the 
grating 
Of  scrannel-pipes,  and  heard  it  mis- 
named Art. 
To  him  the  smiling  soul  of  man  shall 
listen 
Laying   awhile   its  crown  of  thorns 
aside, 
And  once  again  in  every  eye  shall  glisten 

The  glory  of  a  nature  satisfied. 
His  verse  shall  have  a  great  command- 
ing motion, 
Heaving  and  swelling  with  a  melody 
Learn  toft  he  sky,  the  river,  and  theoceaa 
And  all  the  pure,  majestic  things  that 
be. 
Awake,   then,  thou  !  we   pine  for   thy 
great  presence 
To  make  us  feel  the  soul  once  mora 
sublime, 
We  are  of  far  too  infinite  an  essence 
To  restcontented  with  the  lies  of  Time 


THE  FATHERLAND.  — THE  FORLORN. 


'5 


Speak  out !  and,  lo  !  a  hush  of  deepest 
wonder 
Shall  sink  o'er  all  this  many-voiced 
scene, 
As  when   a   sudden   burst  of  rattling 
thunder 
Shatters  the  blueness  of  a  sky  serene. 
1 841. 


THE  FATHERLAND. 

Where  is  the  true  man's  fatherland? 

Is  it  where  he  by  chance  is  born  ? 

Doth  not  the  yearning  spirit  scorn 
In  such  scant  borders  to  be  spanned? 
O  yes  !  his  fatherland  must  be 
As  the  blue  heaven  wide  and  free  ! 

Is  it  alone  where  freedom  is, 

Where  God  is  God  and  man  is  man? 

Doth  he  not  claim  a  broader  span 
For  the  soul's  love  of  home  than  this  ? 
O  yes  !  his  fatherland  must  be 
As  the  blue  heaven  wide  and  free  ! 

Where'er  a  human  heart  doth  wear 
Joy's     myrtle-wreath     or    sorrow's 

gyves, 
Where'er  a  human  spirit  strives 
After  a  life  more  true  and  fair, 
There    is    the    true   man's   birthplace 

grand, 
His  is  a  world-wide  fatherland  ! 

Where'er  a  single  slave  doth  pine, 
Where'er    one    man   may   help   an- 
other, — 
Thank   God   for  such  a   birthright, 
brother,  — 
That  spot  of  earth  is  thine  and  mine  ! 
There    is    the    true  man's   birthplace 

grand, 
His  is  a  world-wide  fatherland  ! 


THE   FORLORN. 

Tim  night  is  dark,  the  stinging  sleet, 
Swept  by  the  bitter  gusts  of  air, 

Drives  whistling  down  the  lonely  street, 
And  stiffens  on  the  pavement  bare. 


The  street-lamps  flare  and  struggle  dim 
Through   the  white   sleet-clouds   as 
they  pass, 

Or,  governed  by  a  boisterous  whim, 
Drop  down  and  rattle  on  the  glass. 

One  poor,  heart-broken,  outcast  girl 
faces  the  east-wind'ssearching  Haw*, 

And,  as  about  her  heart  they  whirl, 
Her    tattered    cloak    more    tightly 
draws. 

The  flat  brick  walls  look  cold  and  bleak, 
Her  bare  feet  to  the  sidewalk  freeze: 

Yet  dares  she  not  a  shelter  seek, 

Though  faint  with  hunger  and  dis- 
ease. 

The  sharp  storm  cuts  her  forehead  bare, 
And,  piercing  through  her  garments 
thin, 
Beats   on   her  shrunken    breast,   and 
there 
Makes  colder  the  cold  heart  within. 

She  lingers  where  a  ruddy  glow 

Streams  outward  through   an   open 
shutter, 

Adding  more  bitterness  to  woe, 
More  loneness  to  desertion  utter. 

One  half  the  cold  she  had  not  felt 
Until  she  saw  this  gush  of  light 

Spread  warmly  forth,  and  seem  to  melt 
Its  slow  way  through  the  deadening 
night. 

She  hears  a  woman's  voice  within, 
Singing  sweet  words  her  childhood 
knew, 

And  years  of  misery  and  sin 

Furl  off,  and  leave  her  heaven  blue. 

Her  freezing  heart,  like  one  who  sinks 
Outwearied  in  the  drifting  snow, 

Drowses  to  deadly  sleep  and  thinks 
No  longer  of  its  hopeless  woe  : 

Old  fields,  and  clear  blue  summer  days. 

Old  meadows,  green  with  grass  and 

trees, 

That  shimmer  through  the  trembling 

haze 

And  whiten  in  the  western  breeze,  — ' 


i6 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Old  faces,  —  all  the  friendly  past 
Rises  within  her  heart  again, 

And  sunshine  from  her  childhood  cast 
Makes  summer  of  the  icy  rain. 

Enhaloed  by  a  mild,  warm  glow, 

From  all  humanity  apart, 
She  hears  old  footsteps  wandering  slow 

Through  the  lone  chambers  of  the 
heart. 

Outside  the  porch  before  the  door, 
Her  cheek  upon  the  cold,  hard  stone, 

She  lies,  no  longer  foul  and  poor, 
No  longer  dreary  and  alone. 

Next  morning  something  heavily 
Against  the  opening  door  did  weigh, 

And  there,  from  sin  and  sorrow  free, 
A  woman  on  the  threshold  lay. 

A  smile  upon  the  wan  lips  told 

That  she  had  found  a  calm  release, 

And  that,  from  out  the  want  and  cold, 
The  song  had  borne  her  soul  in  peace. 

For,  whom  the  heart  of  man  shuts  out, 
Sometimes  the  heart  of  God  takes  in, 

And  fences  them  all  round  about 

With  silence  'mid  the  world's  loud 
din  ; 

And  one  of  his  great  charities 
Is  Music,  and  it  doth  not  scorn 

To  close  the  lids  upon  the  eyes 
Of  the  polluted  and  forlorn  ; 

Far  was  she  from  herchildhood'shome, 
Farther  in  guilt  had  wandered  thence, 

Yet  thither  it  had  bid  her  come 
To  die  in  maiden  innocence. 
1842. 


MIDNIGHT. 

The  moon  shines  white  and  silent 
On  the  mist,  which,  like  a  tide 

Of  some  enchanted  ocean, 

O'er  the  wide  marsh  doth  glide, 

Spreading  its  ghost-like  billows 
Silently  far  and  wide. 


A  vague  and  starry  magic 
Makes  all  things  mysteries, 

And  lures  the  earth's  dumb  spirit 
Up  to  the  longing  skies,  — 

I  seem  to  hear  dim  whispers, 
And  tremulous  replies. 

The  fireflies  o'er  the  meadow 

In  pulses  come  and  go  ; 
The  elm-trees'  heavy  shadow 

Weighs  on  the  grass  below  ; 
And  faintly  from  the  distance 

The  dreaming  cock  doth  crow. 

All  things  look  strange  and  mystic, 

The  very  bushes  swell 
And  take  wild  shapes  and  motions, 

As  if  beneath  a  spell,  — 
They  seem  not  the  same  lilacs 

From  childhood  known  so  welJ- 

The  snow  of  deepest  silence 
O'er  everything  doth  fall, 

So  beautiful  and  quiet, 
And  yet  so  like  a  pall,  — 

As  if  all  life  were  ended, 
And  rest  were  come  to  all. 

O  wild  and  wondrous  midnight, 
There  is  a  might  in  thee 

To  make  the  charmed  body 
Almost  like  spirit  be, 

And  give  it  some  faint  glimpses 
Of  immortality  I 
1842. 


A   PRAYER. 

God  !  do  not  let  my  loved  one  die, 
But  rather  wait  until  the  time 

That  I  am  grown  in  purity 

Enough  to  enter  thy  pure  clime, 

Then  take  me,  I  will  gladly  go, 

So  that  my  love  remain  below  ! 

O,  let  her  stay  !   She  is  by  birth 

What  I  through  death  must  learn  to 
be; 
We  need  her  more  on  our  poor  earth, 
Than  thou  canst  need  in  heaven  with 
thee  : 
She  hath  her  wings  already,  I 
Must  burst  this  earth-shell  ere  I  fly. 


THE  HERITAGE.  — THE   ROSE. 


'7 


Then,   God,   take   me !    We  shall  be 
near, 

More  near  than  ever,  each  to  each  : 
Her  angel  ears  will  find  more  clear 

My  heavenly  than  my  earthly  speech; 
And  still,  as  I  draw  nigh  to  thee, 
Her  soul  and  mine  shall  closer  be. 

1841. 


THE   HERITAGE. 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  lands, 
And  piles  of  brick,  and  stone,  and 
gold, 

And  he  inherits  soft  white  hands, 
And  tender  flesh  that  fears  the  cold, 
Nor  dares  to  wear  a  garment  old  ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

One  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  cares  : 
The  bank  may  break,   the   factory 
burn, 
A  breath  may  burst  his  bubble  shares, 
And  soft  white  hands  could  hardly 

earn 
A  living  that  would  serve  his  turn  ; 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 
One  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  wants, 
His  stomach  craves  for  dainty  fare  ; 

With  sated  heart,  he  hears  the  pants 
Of  toiling   hinds  with   brown   arms 

bare, 
And  wearies  in  his  easy-chair  ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

Oue  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

Whai  doth  the  poor  man's  son  inherit? 
Stout  muscles  and  a  sinewy  heart, 

A  hardy  frame,  a  hardier  spirit  ; 

King  of  two  hands,  he  does  his  part 
In  every  useful  toil  and  art  ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

What  doth  the  poor  man's  son  inherit? 

Wishes  o'erjoyed  with  humble  things, 
A  rank  adjudged  by  toil-won  merit, 

Content  that  from  employment 
springs, 

A  heart  that  in  his  labor  sings  ; 


A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

What  doth  the  poor  man's  son  inherit  ? 
A  patience  learned  of  being  poor, 

Courage,  if  sorrow  come,  to  bear  it, 
A  fellow-feeling  that  is  sure 
To  make  the  outcast  bless  his  door; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

O  rich  man's  son  !  there  is  a  toil 
That  with  all  others  level  stands  ; 

Large  charity  doth  never  soil, 

But  only  whiten,  soft  white  hands, — 
This  is  the  best  crop  from  thy  lands  ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  be, 

Worth  being  rich  to  hold  in  fee. 

O  poor  man's  son  !  scorn  not  thy  state  ; 
There  is  worse  weariness  than  thine, 

In  merely  being  rich  and  great  ; 
Toil  only  gives  the  soul  to  shine, 
And  makes  rest  fragrant  and  benign  ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

Worth  being  poor  to  hold  in  fee. 

Both,  heirs  to  some  six  feet  of  sod, 
Are  equal  in  the  earth  at  last  ; 

Both,  children  of  the  same  dear  God, 
Prove  title  to  your  heirship  vast 
By  record  of  a  well-filled  past ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

Well  worth  a  life  to  hold  in  fee. 


THE  ROSE:    A   BALLAD. 


' 


In  his  tower  sat  the  poet 

Gazing  on  the  roaring  sea, 
"  Take  this  rose,"   he   sighed,    "  and 
throw  it 

Where  there  's  none  that  loveth  me. 
On  the  rock  the  billow  bursteth 

And  sinks  back  into  the  seas, 
But  in  vain  my  spirit  thirsteth 

So  to  burst  and  be  at  ease. 
Take,  O  sea  !  the  tender  blossom 

That  hath  lain  against  my  breast ; 
On  thy  black  and  angry  bosom 

It  will  find  a  surer  rest. 
Life  is  vain,  and  love  is  hollow, 

Ugly  death  stands  there  behind, 


i8 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Hate  and  scorn  and  hunger  follow 

Him  that  toileth  for  his  kind." 
Forth  into  the  night  he  hurled  it, 

And  with  bitter  smile  did  mark 
How  the  surly  tempest  whirled  it 

Swift  into  the  hungry  dark. 
Foam  and  spray  drive  back  to  leeward, 

And  the  gale,  with  dreary  moan, 
Drifts  the  helpless  blossom  seaward 

Through  the  breakers  all  alone. 


Stands  a  maiden,  on  the  morrow, 

Musing  by  the  wave-beat  strand, 
Half  in  hope  and  half  in  sorrow, 

Tracing  words  upon  the  sand  : 
"  Shall  I  ever  then  behold  him 

Who  hath  been  my  life  so  long, — 
Ever  to  this  sick  heart  fold  him,  — 

Be  the  spirit  of  his  song  ? 
Touch  not,  sea,  the  blessed  letters 

I  have  traced  upon  thy  shore, 
Spare  his  name  whose  spirit  fetters 

Mine  with  love  forevermore  !  " 
Swells  the  tide  and  overflows  it, 

But,  with  omen  pure  and  meet- 
Brings  a  little  rose,  and  throws  it 

Humbly  at  the  maiden's  feet. 
Full  of  bliss  she  takes  the  token, 

And,  upon  her  snowy  breast, 
Soothes  the  ruffled  petals  broken 

With  the  ocean's  fierce  unrest. 
"  Love  is  thine,  O  heart  !  and  surelw 

Peace  shall  also  be  thine  own 
For  the  heart  that  trusteth  purely 

Never  long  can  pine  alone." 

m. 

In  his  tower  sits  the  poet, 

Blisses  new  and  strange  to  him 
Fill  his  heart  and  overflow  it 

With  a  wonder  sweet  and  dim. 
Up  the  beach  the  ocean  slideth 

With  a  whisper  of  delight. 
And  the  moon  in  silence  glideth 

Through  the  peaceful  blue  of  nigh* 
Rippling  o'er  the  poet's  shoulder 

Flows  a  maiden's  golden  hair, 
Maiden  lips,  with  love  grown  boldel. 

Kiss  his  moon-lit  forehead  bare. 
"  Life  is  joy,  and  love  is  power, 

Death  all  fetters  doth  unbind, 


Strength  and  wisdom  only  flower 

When  we  toil  for  all  our  kind. 
Hope  is  truth,  — the  future  giveth 

More  than  present  takes  away, 
And  the  eoul  forever  liveth 

Nearer  God  from  r>ay  to  day." 
Not  a  word  the  maiden  uttered, 

Fullest  hearts  are  slow  to  speak, 
But  a  withered  rose-leaf  fluttered 

Down  upon  the  poet's  cheek. 
1842. 


A  LEGEND   OF  BRITTANY. 

PART   FIRST. 


Fair  as  a  summer  dream  was   Mar- 
garet, — 
Such  dream  as  in  a  poet's  soul  might, 
start, 
Musing  of  old  loves  while  the  moon 
doth  set : 
Her  hair  was  not  more  sunny  than 
her  heart, 
Though  like  a  natural  golden  coronet 
It  circled  her  dear  head  with  careless 
art, 
Mocking  the  sunshine,  that  would  fain 

have  lert 
To  its  frank  grace  a  richer  ornament. 


His  loved  one's  eyes  couldi  poet  ever 

speak, 
So  kind,  so  dewy,  and  so  deep  were 

hers,  — 
But,    while    he    strives,    the    choicest 

phrase,  too  weak, 
Their    glad    reflection   in   his  spirit 

blurs ; 
As  one  may  see  a  dream  dissolve  and 

break 
Out  of  his  grasp  when  he  to  tell  it 

stirs, 
Like  that  sad  Dryad  doompd  ro  more 

to  bless 
The   n-Oital  who  revealed  b-v  Jov«ii. 


A    LEGEND   OF  BRITTANY. 


'9 


lit. 

She  dwelt  forever  in  a  region  bright, 
Peopled  with  living  fancies  of  her 
own, 
Where  naught  could  come  but  visions 
of  delight. 
Far,  far  aloof  from  earth's  eternal 
moan  : 
A  summer  cloud  thrilled  through  with 
rosy  light, 
Floating   beneath   the   blue  sky  all 
alone, 
Her  spirit  wandered  by  itself,  and  won 
A  golden  edge  from  some  unsetting  sun. 


The  heart  grows  richer  that  its  lot  is 

poor,  — 
God  blesses  want  with  larger  sym- 
pathies, — 
I  ove  enters  gladliest  at   the  humble 

door, 
And  makes  the  cot  a  palace  with  his 

eves ; — 
*o   Margaret's    heart  a  softer  beauty 

wore, 
And  grew  in  gentleness  and  patience 

wise, 
For  she  was  but  a  simple  herdsman's 

child, 
A  lily  chance-sown  in  the  rugged  wild. 


There  was  no  beauty  of  the  wood  or 
field 
But    she    its  fragrant  bosom-secret 
knew, 
Nor  any  but  to  her  would  freely  yield 
Some  grace  that  in  her  soul  took  root 
and  grew  : 
Nature   to   her   glowed   ever   new-re- 
vealed, 
All  rosy-fresh  with  innocent  morning 
dew, 
And  looked  into  her  heart  with  dim, 

sweet  eyes 
That  left  it  full  of  sylvan  memories. 

VI. 

O,  what  a  face  was  hers  to  brighten 
light, 
And    give    back    sunshine   with   an 
added  glow, 


To  wile  each  moment  with  a  fresh  de- 
light, 
And  part  of  memory's  best  content- 
ment grow  ! 

O,  how  her  voice,  as  with  an  inmate's 
right, 
Into  the  strangest  heart  would  wel- 
come go, 

And  make  it  sweet,  and  ready  to  become 

Of  white   and   gracious   thoughts    the 
chosen  home  ! 


None  looked  upon  her  but  he  straight- 
way thought 
Of  all  the  greenest  depths  of  country 

cheer, 
And  into  each  one's  heart  was  freshly 

brought 
What  was  to  him  the  sweetest  time 

of  year, 
So   was   her   every    look   and    motion 

fraught 
With  out-of-door  delights  and  forest 

lere  ; 
Not  the  first  violet  on  a  woodland  lea 
Seemed  a  more  visible  gift  of  Spring 

than  she. 


Is  love  learned  only  out  of  poets' books? 
Is  there  not  somewhat  in  the  drop- 
ping flood, 
And  in  the  nunneries  of  silent  nooks, 
And  in  the  murmured  longing  of  the 
wood, 
That  could  make  Margaret  dream  of 
lovelorn  looks, 
And  stir  a  thrilling  mystery  in  her 
blood 
More  trembly  secret  than  Aurora's  tear 
Shed  in  the  bosom  of  an  eglatere? 


Full  many  a  sweet  forewarning  hath 
the  mind, 
Full  many  a  whispering  of  vague  de- 
sire, 
Ere  comes  the  nature  destined  to  unbind 
Its  virgin  zone,  and  all  its  deeps  in- 
spire, — 
Low  stirrings  in  the  leaves,  before  tht 
wind 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Wakes  all  the  green  strings  of  the 
forest  lyre, 
Faint  heatings  in  the  calyx,  ere  the  rose 
Its  warm  voluptuous  breast  doth  all  un- 
close. 


Long  in  its  dim  recesses  pines  the  spirit, 
Wildered     and     dark,     despairingly 
alone  ; 
Though  many  a  shape  of  beauty  wan- 
der near  it. 
And  many  a  wild  and  half-remem- 
bered tone 
Tremble  from  the  divine  abyss  to  cheer 

Yet  still  it  knows  that  there  is  only 
one 
Before  whom  it  can  kneel  and  tribute 

bring, 
At  once  a  happy  vassal  and  a  king. 


To  feel  a  want,  yet  scarce  know  what 

it  is, 
Toseek  one  nature  that  is  always  new. 
Whose  glance  is  warmer  than  another's 

kiss, 
Whom    we    can    bare    our    inmost 

beauty  to, 
Nor    feel    deserted    afterwards,  —  for 

this 
But  with  our  destined  co-mate  we 

can  do,  — 
Such  longing  instinct  fills  the  mighty 

scope 
Of  the  young  soul  with  one  mysterious 

hope. 


So   Margaret's  heart  grew  brimming 
with  the  lore 
Of  love's  enticing  secrets;    and  al- 
though 
She  had  found  none  to  cast  it  down  be- 
fore. 
Yet  oft  to  Fancy's  chapel  she  would 

go 
To  pay  her  vows,  and  count  the  rosary 
o'er 
Of   her  love's  promised  graces  :  — 
haply  so 


Miranda's  hope  had  pictured  Ferdinand 
Long  ere  the  gaunt  wava  tossed  him  on 
the  strand. 


A  new-made  star  that  swims  the  lonely 

gloom, 
Unwedded  yet  and  longing  for  the 

sun, 
Whose   beams,  the   bride-gifts  of  the 

lavish  groom, 
Blithely  to  crown  the  virgin  planet 

run, 
Her  being  was,  watching  to  see  the 

bloom 
Of  love's  fresh  sunrise  roofing  one  by 

one 
Its  clouds  with  gold,  a  triumph-arch 

to  be 
For  him  who  came  to  hold  her  heart  in 

fee. 


Not  far  from  Margaret's  cottage  dwelt 

a  knight 
Of  the  proud  Templars,  a  sworn  celi- 
bate, 
Whose  heart  in  secret  fed  upon  the  light 
And  dew  of  her  ripe  beauty,  through 

the  grate 
Of  his  close  vow  catching  what  gleams 

he  might 
Of  the  free  heaven,  and  cursing  —  all 

too  late  — ■ 
The    cruel    faith    whose    black    walls 

hemmed  him  in 
And  turned   life's    crowning    bliss  to 

deadly  sin. 


For  he  had  metherinthewoodby  chance, 
And,    having     drunk    her    beauty's 
wildering  spell, 
His  heartshook  like  the  pennon  of  alance 
Thatquiversinabreeze'ssuddenswell, 
And   thenceforth,    in   a    close-infolded 
trance, 
From  mistily  golden  deep  to  deep  he 
fell  ; 
Till  earth  did  waver  and  fade  far  away 
Beneath  the  hope  in  whose  warm  arms 
he  lay. 


A    LEGEND   OF  BRITTANY. 


XVI. 

A  dark,  proud  man  he  was,  whose  half- 
blown  youth 
Had  shed  its  blossomse ven  in  opening, 
Leaving  a  tew  that  with  more  winning 
ruth 
Trembling  around  grave  manhood's 
stem  might  cling, 
More  sad  than  cheery,  making,  in  good 
sooth, 
Like    the    fringed    gentian,    a    late 
autumn  spring :  — 
A  twilight   nature,    braided   light  and 

gloom, 
A  youth  half-smiling  by  an  open  tomb. 


Fair  as  an  angel,  who  yet  inly  wore 
A  wrinkled  heart  foreboding  his  near 
fall; 
Who  saw  him  alway  wished  to  know 
him  more, 
As  if  he  were  some  fate's  defiant  thrall 
And  nursed  a  dreaded  secret  at  its  core  ; 
Little  he  loved,  but  power  most  of  all, 
And  that  he  seemed  to  scorn,  as  one 

who  knew 
By  what  foul  paths  men  choose  tocrawl 
thereto. 

XVIII. 

Hehadbeennoble,but  some  great  deceit 
Hadturnedhisbetterinstincttoavice  : 
He  strove  to  think  the  world  was  all  a 
cheat, 
That  power  and  fame  were  cheap  at 
any  price, 
That  the  sure  way  of  being  shortly  great 
Was  even  to  play  life's  game  with 
loaded  dice, 
Since  he  had  tried  the  honest  play  and 

found 
That  vice  and  virtuedifferedbutin  sound. 


XIX. 

Yet  Margaret's   sight    redeemed    him 

for  a  space 

From  his  own  thraldom  ;  man  could 

never  be 

Ahypocrite  when  first  such  maiden  grace 

Smiled  iii  upon  his  heart ;  the  agony 


Of  wearing  all  day  long  a  lying  face 
Fell  lightly  from  him,  and,  a  moment 

free, 
Erect  with  wakened  faith  his  spirit  stood 
And  scorned  the  weakness  of  his  demou- 

mood. 


Like  a  sweet  wind-harp  to  him  was  her 
thought, 
Which  would  not  let  the  common  air 
come  near, 
Till  from  its  dim  enchantment  it  had 
caught 
A  musical  tenderness  that  brimmed 
his  ear 
Withsweetnessmore  ethereal  than  aught 
Save   silver-dropping  snatches   that 
whilere 
Rained  down  from   some  sad  angel's 

faithful  harp 
To  cool  her  fallen  lover's  anguish  sharp. 


Deep  in  the  forest  was  a  little  dell 

High  overarched  with  the  leafy  sweep 
Of  a  broad  oak,  through  whose  gnarled 
roots  there  fell 
A  slender  rill  that  sung  itself  asleep, 
Where  its  continuous  toil  had  scooped 
a  well 
To  please  the  fairy  folk  ;  breathlessly 
deep 
The  stillness  was,  save  when  the  dream- 
ing brook 
From  its  small  urn  a  drizzly  murmur 
shook. 


The  wooded  hills  sloped    upward  all 
around 
With  gradual  rise,  and  made  an  even 
rim, 
So  that  it  seemed  a  mighty  casque  un- 
bound 
From   some   huge  Titan's  brow   to 
lighten  him, 
Ages  ago,  and  left  upon  the  ground, 
Where  the  slow  soil  had  mossed  it  to 
the  brim, 
Till  after  countless  centuries  it  grew 
Into  this  dell,  the  haunt  of  noontide 
dew. 


21 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


XXIII. 
Dim  vistas,    sprinkled   o'er  with   sun- 
flecked  green, 
Wound  through  the  thickset  trunks 
on  every  side, 
And,  toward  the  west,  in  fancy  might  be 
seen 
A  gothic  window  in  its  blazing  pride, 
When  the  low  sun,  two  arching  elms 
between, 
Lit  up   the   leaves  beyond,    which, 
autumn-dyed 
With  lavish  hues,  would  into  splendor 

start, 
Shaming  the  labored  panes  of  richest  art. 

XXIV. 

Here,  leaning  once  against  the  old  oak's 

trunk, 
Mordred,   for  such  was  the  young 

Templar's  name, 
Saw  Margaret  come  ;  unseen,  the  falcon 

shrunk 
From  the  meek  dove  ;  sharp  thrills  of 

tingling  flame 
Made  him  forget  that  he  was  vowed  a 

monk, 
And  all  the   outworks   of  his  pride 

o'ercame  :  ,  . 

Flooded  he  seemed  with  bright  delicious 

pain,  .  . 

As  if  a  star  had  burst  within  his  brain. 

XXV. 

Such  power  hath  beauty  and  frank  in- 
nocence : 
A  flower  bloomed  forth,  that  sunshine 
glad  to  bless, 

Even  from  his  love's  long  leafless  stem  ; 
the  sense 
Of  exile  from   Hope's   happy  realm 
grew  less, 

And  thoughts  of  childish    peace,    he 
knew  not  whence, 
Thronged  round  his  heart  with  many 
an  old  caress, 

Melting  the  frost  there  into  pearly  dew 

That  mirrored  back  his  nature's  morn- 
ing-blue. 

XXVI. 

She  turned  and  saw  him,  but  she  felt  no 
dread, 
Her  purity,  like  adamantine  mail, 


Did  so  encircle  her  ;  and  yet  her  head 
She  drooped,   and  made  her  golden 
hair  her  veil, 

Through  which  a  glow  of  rosiest  lustra 
spread, 
Then  faded,  and  anon  she  stood  all 
pale, 

As  snow  o'er  which  a  blush  of  northern- 
light 

Suddenly  reddens,  and  as  soon  grow* 
white. 

XXVII. 

She  thought  of  Tristrem  and  of  Lancilot, 
Of  all  her  dreams,  and  of  kind  fairies' 
might, 
And  how  that  dell  was  deemed  a  haunt- 
ed spot, 
Until  there  grew  a  mist  before  her 

sight'   ■  U     1    U 

And  where  the    present   was  she  halt 

forgot, 
Borne  backward  through  the  realms 

of  old  delight,  — 
Then,   starting  up  awalie,   she  would 

have  gone, 
Yet  almost  wished  it  might  notbe  alone. 

XXVIII. 

How  they  went  home  together  through 

the  wood, 
And  how  all  life  seemed  focussed  into 

one 
Thought-dazzling  spot  that  set  ablaze 

the  blood, 
What  need    to  tell?    Fit   language 

there  is  none 
For  the  heart's  deepest  things.     Who 

ever  wooed 
As  in  his  boyish  hope  he  would  have 

done  ? 
For,  when  the  soul  is  fullest,  the  hushed 

tongue 
Voicelessfy  trembles  hkealute  unstrung. 

XXIX. 

But  all  things  carry  the  heart's  mes- 
sages 
And  know  it  not,  nor  doth  the  heart 
well  know, 
But  nature  hath  her  will ;  even  as  the 
bees, 
Blithe  go-betweens,  fly  singing  to  and 
fro 


A    LEGEND  OF  BRITTANY. 


*3 


With   the    fruit-quickening   pollen;  — 

hard  if  these 
Found   not   some    all    unthought-of 

way  to  show 
Their  secret  each  to  each  ;  and  so  they 

did, 
And   one  heart's  flower-dust  into  the 

other  slid. 


XXX. 

Young  hearts  are  free  ;  the  selfish  world 

it  is 
That  turns  them  miserly  and  cold  as 

stone, 
And  makes  them  clutch  their  fingers  on 

the  bliss 
Which  but  in  giving    truly    is  their 

own  ;  — 
She  had  no  dreams  of  barter,  asked  not 

his, 
But  gave  hers  freely  as  she  would 

have  thrown 
A  rose  to  him,  or  as  that  rose  gives  forth 
Its  generous  fragrance,   thoughtless  of 

its  worth. 


XXXI. 

Her  summer  nature  felt  a  need  to  bless, 
And  a  like  longing  to  be  blest  again  ; 

So,  from  her  sky-like  spirit,  gentleness 
Dropt  ever  like  a  sunlit  fall  of  rain, 

And  his  beneath  drank  in   the  bright 
caress 
As  thirstily  as  would  a  parched  plain, 

That  long  hath  watched  the  showers  of 
sloping  gray 

Forever,  ever,  falling  far  away. 


How  should  she  dream  of  ill  ?  the  heart 
filled  quite 
With  sunshine,  like  the  shepherd's- 
clock  at  noon, 
Closesitsleavesaround  its  warm  delight; 
Whate'er  in  life  is  harsh  or  out  of  tune 
Is  all  shut  out,  no  boding  shade  of  light 
Can  pierce   the    opiate   ether  of  its 
swoon : 
Love  is  but  blind  asthoughtful  justice  is, 
But  naught  can  be  so  wauton-blind  as 
bliss. 


XXXIII. 

All  beauty  and  all  life  he  was  to  her: 
She  questioned  not  his  love,  she  only 
knew 
That  she   loved  him,   and  not  a  pulse 
could  stir 
In   her  whole   frame    but    quivered 
through  and  through 
With  this   glad    thought,    and   was  a 
minister 
To  do  him  fealty  and  service  true, 
Like  golden  ripples  hasting  to  the  land 
To  wreck  their  freight  of  sunshine  on 
the  strand. 


O  dewy  dawn  of  love!    O  hopes  that  are 
Hung  high,   like  the  cliff-swallow's 
perilous  nest, 
Most  like  to  fall  when  full  est,  and  that  jar 
With  every  heavierbillow!     O  unrest 
Than  balmiest  deeps  of  quiet  sweeter  far! 
How  did  ye  triumph  now  in  Marga- 
ret's breast, 
Making  it  readier  to  shrink  and  start 
Than  quivering  gold  of  the  pond-lily's 
heart ! 

XXXV. 

Here  let  us  pause  :  O,  would  the  soul 
might  ever 
Achieve  its  immortality  in  youth, 
When    nothing    yet  hath  damped  its 
high  endeavor 
After  the  starry  energy  of  truth  ! 
Here  let  uspause,  and  for  a  moment  sever 
This  gleam  of  sunshine  from  the  days 
unruth 
That  sometime  come  to  all,  for  it  is  good 
To  lengthen  to  the  last  a  sunny  mood. 


PART   SECOND. 


As  one  who,  from  the  sunshine  and  the 

green, 

Enters  the  solid  darkness  of  a  cave, 

Nor  knows  what  precipice  or  pit  unseen 

May  yawn  before  him  with  its  suddeB 

grave, 


24 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


And,  with  hushed  breath,   doth  often 

forward  lean, 
Dreaming  he  hears  the  plashing  of  a 

wave 
Dimly  below,  or  feels  a  damper  air 
From  out  some  dreary  chasm,  he  knows 

not  where  ;  — 


So,  from  the  sunshine  and  the  green  of 
love, 
We  enter  on  our  story's  darker  part  ; 
And,  though  the  horror  of  it  well  may 
move 
An  impulse ofrepugnance  in  the  heart, 
Yet  let  us  think,  that,  as  there  's  naught 
above 
The  all-embracing  atmosphere  of  Art, 
So  also  there  is  naught  that  falls  below 
Her  generous  reach,    though   grimed 
with  guilt  and  woe. 


Her  fittest  triumph  is  to  show  that  good 

Lurks  in  the  heart  of  evil  evermore, 
That  love,  though  scorned,  and  outcast, 
and  withstood, 
Can    without   end   forgive,   and   yet 
have  store  ; 
God's  love  and  man's  are  of  the  self- 
same blood. 
And  He  can  see  that  alwaysat  thedoor 
Of  foulest  hearts  the  angel-nature  yet 
Knocks  to  return  and  cancel  all  its  debt. 


^t  ever  is  weak  falsehood's  destiny 
That  her  thick  mask  turns  crystal  to 
let  through 
The  unsuspicious  eyes  of  honesty  ; 
But  Margaret's  heart  was  too  sincere 
and  true 
Aught  but  plain  truth  and  faithfulness 
to  see, 
And  Mordred's  for  a  time  a  little  grew 
To  be  like  hers,  won  by  the  mild  reproof 
Of  those  kind  eyes  that  kept  all  doubt 
aloof. 

v. 
Full  oft  they  m^t,  as  dawn  and  twilight 
meet 
In  northern  cli.  les ;  she  full  of  grow- 
ing day 


As  he  of  darkness,  which  before  her  feet 

Shrank  gradual,  and  faded  quite  away, 

Soon  to  return  ;  for  power  had  made 

love  sweet 

To   him,    and,   when    his    will    had 

gained  full  sway, 

The  taste  began  to  pall  ;  for  never  power 

Cansatethehungrysoulbeyond  an  hour. 


He  fell  as  doth  the  tempter  ever  fall, 
Even  in  the  gaining  of  his  loathsome 
end ; 
God  doth  not  work  as  man  works,  but 
makes  all 
The  crooked  paths  of  ill  to  goodness 
tend  ; 
Let  him  judge  Margaret !    If  to  be  the 
thrall 
Of  love,   and  faith  too  generous  to 
defend 
Its  very  life  from  him  she  loved,  be  sin, 
What  hope  of  grace  may  the  seducer 
win  ? 

VII. 

Grim-hearted  world,  that  look'st  with 

Levite  eyes 
On  those  poor  fallen  by  too  much 

faith  in  man, 
She  that  upon  thy  freezing  threshold 

lies, 
Starved  to  more  sinning  by  thy  sav- 
age ban,  — 
Seeking  that  refuge  because  foulest  vice 
More    godlike    than    thy  virtue   is, 

whose  span 
Shuts  out  the  wretched  only,  —  is  more 

free 
To  enter  Heaven  than  thou  wilt  ever 

bel 

VIII. 

Thou  wilt  not  let  her  wash  thy  dainty 
feet 
With  such  salt  things  as   tears,   or 
with  rude  hair 
Dry  them,  soft  Pharisee,  that  sit'st  at 
meat 
With  him  who  made  her  such,  and 
speak'st  him  fair, 
Leaving  God's    wandering    lamb    the 
while  to  bleat 
Unheeded,  shivering  in  thu  pitiless 
air ; 


A    LEGEND  OF  BRITTANY. 


*S 


Thou  hast  made  prisoned  virtue  show 

more  wan 
And  haggard  than  a  vice  to  look  upon. 


Now  many  months  flew  by,  and  weary 

grew 
To    Margaret    the    sight   of   happy 

things ; 
Blight  fell  on  all  her  flowers,  instead 

of  dew  ; 
Shut  round  her  heart  were  now  the 

joyous  wings 
Wherewith  it  wont  to  soar;   yet  not 

untrue, 
Though  tempted  much,  her  woman's 

nature  clings 
To  its  first  pure  belief,  and  with  sad 

eyes 
Looks  backward  o'er  the  gate  of  Para- 
dise. 


And  so,  though  altered  Mordred  came 

less  oft, 
And   winter  frowned   where    spring 

had  laughed  before, 
In  his  strange  eyes,  yet  half  her  sad- 
ness doffed, 
And  in  her  silent  patience  loved  him 

more  : 
Sorrow  had   made   her  soft  heart  yet 

more  soft, 
And  a  new  life  within  her  own  she 

bore 
Which  made  her  tenderer,  as  she  felt 

it  move 
Beneath  her  breast,  a  refuge  for  her 

love. 

XI. 

This  babe,  she  thought,  would  surely 
bring  him  back, 
And  be  a  bond  forever  them  between  : 
Before  its  eyes  the  sullen  tempest-rack 
Would  fade,  and  leave  the  face  of 
heaven  serene  ; 
And  love's  return  doth  more  than  fill 
the  lack, 
Which  m  his  absence  withered  the 
heart's  green  : 
And  yet  a  dim  foreboding  still  would 

flit 
Between  her  and  her  hope  to  darken  it. 


XII. 

She  could  not  figure  forth  a  happy  fate, 
Even  for  this  lite   from   heaven   so 
newly  come  ; 
The  earth  must  needs  be  doubly  deso- 
late 
To  him  scarce  parted  from  a  fairer 
home  : 
Such  boding  heavier  on  her  bosom  sate 
One  night,  as,  standing  in  the  twi- 
light gloam, 
She  strained  her  eyes  beyond  that  dizzy 

verge 
At  whose  foot  faintly  breaks  the  future's 
surge. 


Poor  little  spirit  !    naught  but  shame 
and  woe 
Nurse  the  sick  heart  whose  lifeblood 
nurses  thine  : 
Yet    not    those  only ;    love   hath   tri- 
umphed so, 
As  for  thy  sake  makes  sorrow  more 
divine  : 
And  yet,  though  thou  be  pure,  the  world 
is  foe 
To  purity,  if  born  in  such  a  shrine  ; 
And,  having  trampled  it  for  struggling 

thence, 
Smiles  to  itself,  and  calls  it  Providence. 


As  thus  she  mused,  a  shadow  seemed 

to  rise 
From  out  her  thought,  and  turn  to 

dreariness 
All  blissful  hopes  and  sunny  memories, 
And  the  quick  blood  would  curdle  up 

and  press 
About  her  heart,  which  seemed  to  shut 

its  eyes 
And  hush  itself,  as  who  with  shud- 
dering guess 
Harks  through  the  gloom  and  dreads 

e'en  now  to  feel 
Through  his  hot  breast  the  icy  slide  of 

steel. 


But,  at  that  heart-beat,  while  in  dread 
she  -was, 
In   the   low  wind  the  honeysuckles 
gleam, 


26 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


A  dewy  thrill  flits  through  the  heavy- 
grass, 
And,  looking  forth,  she  saw,  as  in  a 
dream, 

Within  the  wood  the  moonlight's  shad- 
owy mass : 
Night's  starry  heart  yearning  to  hers 
doth  seem, 

And  the  deep  sky,  full-hearted  with  the 
moon, 

Folds  round  her  all  the  happiness  of 
J  une. 


What  fear  could  face  a  heaven  and  earth 

like  this? 
What    silveriest    cloud   could    hang 

'neath  such  a  sky  ? 
A  tide  of  wondrous  and  unwonted  bliss 
Rolls  back   through   all   her   pulses 

suddenly, 
As  if  some  seraph,  who  had  learned  to 

kiss 
From  the  fair  daughters  of  the  world 

gone  by, 
Had  wedded  so  his  fallen  light  with 

hers, 
Such  sweet,   strange  joy  through  soul 

and  body  stirs. 

XVII. 

Now  seek  we  Mordred  :    he  who  did 
not  fear 
The  crime,  yet  fears  the  latent  con- 
sequence : 

If  it  should  reach  a  brother  Templar's 
ear, 
It  haply  might  be  made  a  good  pre- 
tence 

To  cheat  him  of  the  hope  he  held  most 
dear ; 
For  he  had  spared  no  thought's  or 
deed's  expense, 

That,  by  and  by  might  help  his  wish  to 
clip 

Its   darling   bride,  —  the   high   grand- 
mastership. 

xvm. 

The  apathy,   ere  a  erime   resolved  is 
done, 
Is  scarce  less  dreadful  than  remorse 
for  crime  ; 


By  no  allurement    can    the    soul    be 

won 
From  brooding  o'er  the  weary  creep 

of  time  : 
Mordred   stole   forth   into    the   happy 

sun, 
Striving  to  hum  a  scrap  of  Breton 

rhyme, 
But  the  sky  struck  him  speechless,  and 

he  tried 
In   vain,    to   summon    up    his    callous 

pride. 

XIX. 

In  the  courtyard  a  fountain  leaped  al- 
way, 
A  Triton  blowing  jewels  through  his 
shell 
Into  the   sunshine ;    Mordred  turned 
away, 
Weary  because  the  stone  face  did  not 
tell 
Of  weariness,  nor  could  he  bear  to-day, 
Heartsick,   to  hear  the  patient  sink 
and  swell 
Of  winds  among  the  leaves,  or  golden 

bees 
Drowsily  humming  in  the  orange-trees. 


All  happy  sights  and  sounds  now  came 
to  him 
Like  a  reproach  :    he  wandered  fat 
and  wide, 
Following  the  lead  of  his  unquiet  whim, 
But  still  there  went  a  something  at 
his  side 
That  made   the  cool  breeze  hot,  the 
sunshine  dim  ; 
It  would  not  flee,  it  couldiiotbedefied, 
He  could  not  see  it,  but  he  felt  it  there, 
By  the   damp   chill  that  crept  among 
his  hair. 


Day  wore   at  last ;   the  evening  star 
arose, 
And  throbbing  in  the  sky  grew  red 
and  set ; 
Then  with  a  guilty,  wavering  step  he 
goes 
To  the  hid  nook  where  they  so  oft 
had  met 


A    LEGEND  OF  BRITTANY. 


'7 


In  happier  season,   for   his  heart  well 
knows 
That  he  is  sure  to  find  poor  Margaret 

Watching  and  waiting  there  with  love- 
lorn breast 

Around    her    young     dream's     rudely 
scattered  nest. 


Why  follow  here  that  grim  old  chronicle 
Winch  counts  the  dagger-strokes  and 
drops  of  blood  ? 
Enough  that  Margaret  by  his  mad  steel 
fell, 
Unmoved  by  murder  from  her  trust- 
ing mood, 
Smiling  on  him  as  Heaven  smiles  on 
Hell, 
With  a  sad  love,  remembering  when 
he  stood 
Not  fallen  yet,  the  unsealer  of  her  heart, 
Of  all  her  holy  dreams  the  holiest  part. 


His  crime   complete,   scarce   knowing 

what  he  did, 
(So  goes  the  tale,)  beneath  the  altar 

there 
In  the  high  church  the  stiffening  corpse 

he  hid, 
And  then,  to 'scape  that  suffocatingair, 
Like  a  scared  ghoul  out  of  the  porch 

he  slid  ; 
But  his  strained  eyes  saw  bloodspots 

everywhere, 
And  ghastly   faces  thrust    themselves 

between 
His  soul  and  hopes  of  peace  with  blast- 
ing mien. 


His  heart  went  out  within  him  like  a 
spark 
Dropt  in  the  sea  ;  wherever  he  made 
bold 
Toturnhiseyes,  he  saw,  all  stiff  andstark, 
Pale  Margaret  lying  dead  ;  the  lavish 
gold 
Of  her  loose  hair  seemed  in  the  cloudy 
dark 
To  spread  a  glory,  and  a  thousand- 
fold 


More  strangely  pale  and  beautiful  she 

grew : 
Her    silence    stabbed    his    conscience 

through  and  through  : 


Or  visionsof  past  days, — amother'seyes 
That  smiled  down  on  the  fair  boy  at 
her  knee, 
Whose    happy  upturned   face  to  hers 
replies,  — 
He   saw    sometimes :    or    Margaret 
mournfully 
Gazed  on  him  full  of  doubt,  as  one  who 
tries 
To  crush  belief  that  does  love  injury  ; 
Then  she  would  wring  her  hands,  but 

soon  again 
Love's  patience  glimmered  out  through 
cloudy  pain. 

XXVI. 

Meanwhile  he  dared  not  go  and  steal 

away 
The  silent,  dead-cold  witness  of  his 

sin; 
He  had  not  feared  the  life,  but  that  dull 

clay, 
Those  open   eyes  that  showed  the 

death  within, 
Would  surely  stare  him  mad  ;  yet  all 

the  day 
A  dreadful  impulse,  whence  his  will 

could  win 
No  refuge,  made  him  linger  in  the  aisle, 
Freezing  with  his  wan  look  each  greet- 
ing smile. 

XXVII. 

Now,  on  the  second  day  there  was  to  be 
A  festival  in  church:   from  far  and 
near 
Came  flocking  in   the  sunburnt  peas- 
antry, 
And  knights  and  dames  with  stately 
antique  cheer, 
Blazing  with  pomp,  as  if  all  faerie 
Had  emptied  her  quaint  halls,  or,  as 
it  were, 
The  illuminated  marge  of  some  old  book, 
While  we  were  gazing,  life  and  motion 
took. 


28 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


XXVIII. 

When  all  were  entered,  and  the  roving 
eyes 
Of  all  were  stayed,  some  upon  faces 
bright, 
Some  on  the  priests,  some  on  the  traceries 
That  decked  the  slumber  of  a  marble 
knight, 
And  all  the  rustlings  over  that  arise 

From  recognizing  tokens  of  delight, 
When   friendly    glances    meet, —  then 

silent  ease 
Spread  o'er  the  multitude  by  slow  de- 
grees.   • 

XXIX. 

Then  swelled  the  organ  :  up  through 
choir  and  nave 
The  music  trembled  with  an  inward 
_  thrill 
Of  bliss  at  its  own  grandeur:  wave  on 
wave 
Its  flood  of  mellow  thunder  rose,  until 
The  hushed  air  shivered  with  the  throb 
it  gave, 
Then,  poising  for  a  moment,  it  stood 
still, 
Andsankand  roseagain,  toburstinspray 
That  wandered  into  silence  far  away. 


Like  to  amighty  heart  the  music  seemed, 
That  yearns  with  melodies  it  cannot 
speak, 
Until,    in    grand   despair   of   what    it 
dreamed, 
In  the  agony  of  effort  it  doth  break, 
Yet  triumphs  breaking ;  on  it  rushed 
and  streamed 
And  wantoned  in  its  might,  as  when 
a  lake, 
Long  pent  among  the  mountains,  bursts 

its  walls 
And  in  one  crowding  gush   leaps  forth 
and  falls. 

XXXI. 

Deeper  and  deeper  shudders  shook  the 
air, 
As   the   huge   bass    kept    gathering 
heavily, 
Like  thunder  when  it  rouses  in  its  lair, 
And  with  its  hoarse  growl  shakes  the 
low-hung  sky, 


It  grew  up  like  a  darkness  everywhere, 
Killing  the  vast  cathedral ;  —  sud- 
denly, 

From  the  dense  mass  a  boy's  clear 
treble  broke 

Like  lightning,  and  the  full-toned  choir 
awoke. 


Through  gorgeous  windows  shone  tha 
sun  aslant, 
Brimming  the  church  with  gold  and 
purple  mist, 
Meet  atmosphere    to  bosom  that  rich 
chant, 
Where  fifty  voices  in  one  strand  did 
twist, 
Their  varicoloredtones,  andleft  no  want 
To  the  delighted  soul,   which  sank 
abyssed 
In   the    warm  music  cloud,  while,  far 

below, 
The  organ  heaved  its  surges  to  and  fro. 

XXXIII. 

As  if  a  lark  should  suddenly  drop  dead 
While  the  blue  air  yet  trembled  with 

its  song, 
So  snapped  at  once  that  music's  golden 

thread, 
Struck  by  a  nameless  fear  that  leapt 

along 
From  heart  to  heart,  and  like  a  shadow 

spread 
With  instantaneous    shiver  through 

the  throng, 
So  that  some  glanced  behind,  as  half 

aware 
A  hideous  shape  of  dread  were  stand- 
ing there. 

XXXIV. 

As  when  a  crowd  of  pale  men  gather 
round, 
Watching  an  eddy  in  the  leaden  deep, 
From  which  they  deem  the  body  of  one 
drowned 
Will  be  cast  forth,  from  face  to  fac« 
doth  creep 
An  eager  dread  that  holds  all  tongues 
fast  bound 
Until  the  horror,  with  a  ghastly  leap, 


A    LEGEND  OF  BRITTANY. 


Start*,  «p,  its  dead  blue  arms  stretched 
a-mlsssly, 

Heavbd  with  the  swinging  of  the  care- 
less sea,  — 

xxxv. 

So  in  the  faces  of  all  these  there  grew, 
As  by  one  impulse,  a  dark,  freezing 
awe, 
Which,  with  a  fearful  fascination  drew 
All  eyes  toward  the  altar ;  damp  and 
raw 
The  air  grew  suddenly,   and  no  man 
knew 
Whether  perchance  his  silent  neigh- 
bor saw 
The  dreadful  thing  which  all  were  sure 

would  rise 
To  scare  the  strained  lids  wider  from 
their  eyes. 

XXXVI. 

The  incense  trembled  as  it  upward  sent 
Its  slow,  uncertain  thread  of  wander- 
ing blue, 
As  'twere  the  only  living  element 
In  all  the  church,  so  deep  the  still- 
ness grew  ; 
It  seemed  one  might  have  heard  it,  as 
it  went, 
Give  out  an  audible  rustle,  curling 
through 
The  midnight  silence  of  that  awe-struck 

air, 
More  hushed   than  death,  though  so 
much  life  was  there. 

XXXVII. 

Nothing  they  saw,  but  a  low  voice  was 
heard 
Threading   the   ominous   silence   of 
that  fear, 
Gentle  and  terrorless  as  if  a  bird, 
Wakened  by  some  volcano's  glare, 
should  cheer 
The  murk  air  with  his  song;  yet  every 
word 
I  n  thecathedral's  farthest  arch  seemed 
near. 
As  if  it  spoke  to  every  one  apart, 
Like  the  clear  voice  of  conscience  in 
each  heart. 


"  O  Rest,  to  weary  hearts  thou  art  most 
dear  ! 
O  Silence,  after  life's  bewildering  din, 
Thou  art  most  welcome,  whether  in  the 
sear 
Days  of  our  age  thou  comest,  or  wt 
win 
Thy    poppy-wreath    in    youth  !     then 
wherefore  here 
Linger  I  yet,  once  free  to  enter  in 
At    that    wished    gate    which    gentle 

Death  doth  ope, 
Into  the  boundless  realm  of  strength 
and  hope  ? 

XXXIX. 

"  Think  not  in  death  my  love  could 
ever  cease  ; 
If  thou  wast  false,  more  need  there 
is  for  me 
Still  to  be  true  ;  that  slumber  were  no 
peace, 
If  'twere  unvisited  with  dreams  of 
thee  : 
And  thou  hadst  never  heard  such  words 
as  these, 
Save  that  in  heaven  I  must  ever  be 
Most  comfortless  and  wretched,  seeing 
•  this 

Our  unbaptized  babe  shut  out  from  bliss. 

XL. 

"  This  little  spirit  with  imploring  eyes 
Wanders  alone   the  dreary  wild  of 
space ; 
The  shadow  of  his  pain  forever  lies 
Upon  my  soul  in  this  new  dwelling- 
place  ; 
His  loneliness  makes  me  in  Paradise 
More  lonely,   and,   unless  I  see  his 
face, 
Even   here  for  grief  could  I  lie  down 

and  die, 
Save  for  my  curse  of  immortality. 

XLI. 

"  World  after  world  he  sees  around  him 
swim 
Crowded  with  happy  souls,  that  take 
no  heed 


30 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Of  the  sad  eyes  that  from  the  night's 

faint  rim 
Gaze  sick  with  longing  on  them  as 

they  speed 
With  golden  gates,  that  only  shut  out 

him  ; 
And  shapes  sometimes  from  Hell's 

abysses  freed 
Flap   darkly    by   him,  with  enormous 

sweep 
Of  wings  that  roughen  wide  the  pitchy 

deep. 

XLII. 

"  I  am  a  mother,  —  spirits  do  not  shake 
This  much  of  earth  from   them,  — 
and  I  must  pine 
Till  I  can  feel  his  little  hands,  and  take 
His  weary  head  upon  this  heart  of 
mine  ; 
And,   might  it  be,   full  gladly  for  his 
sake 
Would  I  this  solitude  of  bliss  resign, 
And  be  shut  out  of  Heaven  to  dwell 

with  him 
Forever  in  that  silence  drear  and  dim. 

XLIII. 

"  I  strove  to  hush  my  soul,  and  would 

not  speak 
At  first,  for  thy  dear  sake  ;  a  woman's 

love 
Is  mighty,  but  a  mother's  heart  is  weak, 
And  by  its  weakness  overcomes ;  I 

strove 
To  smother  bitter  thoughts  with  pa- 
tience meek, 
But  still  in  the  abyss  my  soul  would 

rove, 
Seeking  my  child,  and  drove  me  here 

to  claim 
The  rite  that  gives  him  peace  in  Christ's 

dear  name. 

XLIV. 

"  I  sit  and  weep  while  blessed  spirits 
sing ; 
I  can  but  long  and  pine  the  while  they 
praise, 
And,  leaning  o'er  the  wall  of  Heaven, 
I  fling 
My  voice  to  where  I  deem  my  infant 
strays, 


Like  a  robbed  bird  that  cries  in  vain  to 

bring 
Her  nestlings  back  beneath  her  wings' 

embrace  ; 
But  still  he  answers  not,  and  I  but  know 
That  Heaven  and  earth  are  both  alike 

in  woe." 


Then  the  pale  priests,  with  ceremony 
due, 
Baptized  the  child  within  its  dread- 
ful tomb 

Beneath  that  mother's  heart,  whose  in- 
stinct true 
Star-lik'e  had  battled  down  the  triple 
gloom 

Of  sorrow,   love,    and  death :    young 
maidens,  too, 
Strewed  the  pale  corpse  with  many 
a  milkwhite  bloom, 

And  parted  the  bright  hair,  and  on  the 
breast 

Crossed  the  unconscious  hands  in  sign 
of  rest. 

XLVI. 

Some  said,  that,  when  the  priest  had 
sprinkled  o'er 
The  consecrated  drops,  they  seemed 
to  hear 
A  sigh,  as  of  some  heart  from  travail 
sore 
Released,  and  then  two  voices  sing- 
ing clear, 
Misereatur  Dens,  more  and  more 
Fading  far  upward,  and  their  ghastly 
fear 
Fell   from   them  with   that  sound,  as 

bodies  fall 
From  souls  upspringing  to  celestial  hall. 


PROMETHEUS. 

One  after  one  the  stars  have  risen 

and  set, 
Sparkling   upon   the  hoarfrost  on   my 

chain  : 
The  Bear,  that  prowled  all  night  about 

the  fold 


PROMETHEUS. 


3i 


Of  the   North-star,   hath   shrunk  into 

his  den, 
Scared  by  the  blithesome  footsteps  of 

the  Dawn, 
Wkose  blushing  smile    floods  all  the 

Orient  ; 
And  now  bright  Lucifer  grows  less  and 

less, 
Into  the  heaven's  blue  quiet  deep-with- 
drawn. 
Sunless  and  starless  all,  the  desert  sky 
Arches  above  me,  empty  as  this  heart 
For  ages  hath  been  empty  of  all  joy, 
Except  to  brood  upon  its  silent  hope, 
As  o'er  its  hope  of  day  the  sky  doth 

now. 
All  night  have  I  heard  voices  :  deeper 

yet 
The  deep  low  breathing  of  the  silence 

grew, 
While  all  about,  muffled  in  awe,  there 

stood 
Shadows,  or  forms,  or  both,   clear-felt 

at  heart, 
But,  when  I  tumed  to  front  them,  fat 

along 
Only  a  shudder  through  the  midnight 

ran, 
And    the    dense    stillness   walled    me 

Closer  round. 
But  still  I  heard  them  wander  up  and 

down 
That  solitude,  and  flappings  of  dusk 

wings 
Did    mingle   with    them,   whether   of 

those  hags 
Let  slip  upon  me  once  from  Hades  deep, 
Or  of  yet  direr  torments,  if  such  be, 
I  could  but  guess  ;  and  then  toward  me 

came 
A  shape  as  of  a  woman  :  very  pale 
It  was,  and  calm  ;  its  cold  eyes  did  not 

move, 
And  mine  moved  not,  but  only  stared 

on  them. 
Their  fixed  awe  went  through  my  brain 

like  ice  ; 
A  skeleton  hand  seemed  clutching  at 

my  heart. 
And  a  sharp  chill,  as  if  a  dank  night 

fog 
Suddenly  closed  me  in,  was  all  I  felt : 
And  then,  methought,  I  heard  a  freez- 
ing sigh, 


A  long,  deep,  shivering  sigh,  as  from 

blue  lips 
Stiffening  in  death,  close  to  mine  ear 

I  thought 
Some  doom  was  close  upon  me,  and  I 

looked 
And   saw  the   red  moon  through  the 

heavy  mist, 
Just  setting,  and  it  seemed  as  it  wer. 

falling, 
Or  reeling  to  its  fall,  so  dim  and  dead 
And  palsy-struck  it  looked.      Then  all 

sounds  merged 
Into  the  rising  surges  of  the  pines, 
Which,  leagues  below  me,  clothing  the 

gaunt  loins 
Of  ancient  Caucasus  with  hairy  strength, 
Sent   up   a   murmur   in    the    morning 

wind, 
Sad  as  the  wail  that  from  the  populous 

earth 
All   day  and   night   to   high  Olympus 

soars, 
Fit  incense  to  thy  wicked  throne,   O 

Jove  ! 

Thy  hated  name  is  tossed  once  more 
in  scorn 

From  off  my  lips,  for  I  will  tell  thy 
doom. 

And  are  these  tears?  Nay,  do  not  tri- 
umph, Jove  ! 

They  are  wrung  from  me  but  by  the 
agonies 

Of  prophecy,  like  those  sparse  drops 
which  fall 

From  clouds  in  travail  of  the  lightning, 
when 

The  great  wave  of  the  storm  high- 
curled  apd  black 

Rolls  steadily  onward  to  its  thunderous 
break. 

Why  art  thou  made  a  god  of,  thou  poor 
type 

Of  anger,  and  revenge,  and  cunning 
force  ? 

True  Power  was  never  born  of  brutish 
Strength, 

Nor  sweet  Truth  suckled  at  the  shaggy 
dugs 

Of  that  old  she-wolf.  Are  thy  thunder- 
bolts, 

Thsa  quell  the  darkness  for  a  space,  so 
strong 


32 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


As    the   prevailing  patience  of  meek 

Li.S,u> 
Who,   with   the   invincible   tenderness 

of  peace, 
Wins  it  to  be  a  portion  of  herself? 
Why  art  thou  made  a  god  of,  thou,  who 

hast 
The  never-sleeping  terror  at  thy  heart, 
That  birthright  of  all  tyrants,  worse  to 

bear 
Than  this  thy  ravening  bird  on  which 

I  smile  ? 
Tliou  swear'st  to  free  me,  if  I  will  un- 
fold 
What  kind  of  doom  it  is  whose  omen 

flits 
Across  thy  heart,   as  o'er  a  troop  of 

doves 
The  fearful  shadow  of  the  kite.     What 

need 
To  know  that  truth  whose  knowledge 

cannot  save  ? 
Evil  its  errand  hath,  as  well  as  Good  ; 
When  thine  is  finished,  thou  art  known 

no  more  : 
There  is  a  higher  purity  than  thou, 
And  higher  purity  is  greater  strength  ; 
Thy  nature  is  thy  doom,  at  which  thy 

heart 
Trembles  behind  the  thick  wall  of  thy 

might. 
Let  man  but  hope,  and  thou  art  straight- 
way chilled 
With  thought  of  that  drear  silence  and 

deep  night 
Which,  like  a  dream,  shall  swallow  thee 

and  thine  : 
Let  man  but  will,  and  thou  art  god  no 

more, 
More  capable  of  ruin  than  the  gold 
And  ivory  that  image  thee  on  earth, 
lie  who   hurled   down  the  monstrous 

Titan-brood 
Blinded   with   lightnings,   with   rough 

thunders  stunned, 
Is  weaker  than  a  simple  human  thought. 
My  slender  voice  can  shake  thee,  as  the 

breeze, 
That  seems  but  apt  to  stir  a  maiden's 

hair, 
Sways  huge  Oceanus  from  pole  to  pole  : 
For  I  am  still  Prometheus,  and  fore- 
know 
In  my  wise  heart  the  end  anddoomof  all. 


Yes,  I  am  still  Prometheus,  wiser 
grown 

By  yearsof  solitude,  —  that  holds  apart 

The  past  and  future,  giving  the  soul 
room 

To  search  into  itself,  — and  long  com- 
mune 

With  this  eternal  silence;  —  more  a 
god, 

In  my  long-suffering  and  strength  to 
meet 

With  equal  front  the  direst  shafts  of 
fate, 

Than  thou  in  thy  faint-hearted  despot- 
ism, 

Girt  with  thy  baby-toys  of  force  and 
wrath. 

Yes,  I  am  that  Prometheus  who  brought 
down 

The  light  to  man,  which  thou,  in  selfish 
fear, 

Iladst  to  thyself  usurped,  —  his  by  sole 
right, 

For  Man  hath  right  to  all  save  Tyr- 
anny, — 

And  which  shall  free  him  yet  from  thy 
frail  throne. 

Tyrants  are  but  the  spawn  of  Igno- 
rance, 

Begotten  by  the  slaves  they  trample  on, 

Who,  could  they  win  a  glimmer  of  the 
light, 

And  see  that  Tyranny  is  always  weak- 
ness, 

Or  Fear  with  its  own  bosom  ill  at  ease, 

Would  laugh  away  in  scorn  the  sand- 
wove  chain 

Which  their  own  blindness  feigned  for 
adamant. 

Wrong  ever  builds  on  cjuicksands,  but 
the  Right 

To  the  firm  centre  lays  its  moveless 
base. 

The  tyrant  trembles,  if  the  air  but  stirs 

The  innocent  ringlets  of  a  child's  free 
hair, 

And  crouches,  when  the  thought  of 
some  great  spirit, 

With  world-wide  murmur,  like  a  rising 
gale, 

Over  men's  hearts,  as  over  standing 
corn, 

Rushes,  and  bends  them  to  its  own 
strong  will. 


rROMETHEUS. 


32 


So  shall  some  thought  of  mine  yet  cir- 
cle earth, 

And  puff  away  thy  crumbling  altars, 
Jove  ! 

And,  wouldst  thou  know  of  my  su- 
preme revenge, 
Poor  tyrant,   even  now  dethroned    in 

heart, 
Realmless  in  soul,  as  tyrants  ever  are, 
Listen  !  and  Jell  ine  if  this  bitter  peak, 
This  never-glutted  vulture,  and  these 

chains 
Shrink  not  before  it  ;  for  it  shall  befit 
A  sorrow-taught,  unconquered  Titan- 
heart. 
Men,  when  their  death  is  on  them,  seem 

to  stand 
On  a  precipitous  crag  that  overhangs 
The  abyss  of  doom,  and  in  that  depth 

to  see, 
As  in  a  glass,  the  features  dim  and  vast 
Of  things  to  come,  the  shadows,  as  it 

seems, 
Of  what  have  been.     Death  ever  fronts 

the  wise  ; 
Not  fearfully,  but  with  clear  promises 
Of  larger  life,  on  whose  broad  vans  up- 
borne, 
Their  outlook  widens,   and   they   see 

beyond 
The  horizon  of  the  Present  and  the  Past, 
Even  to  the  very  source  and  end  of 

things. 
Sucham  Inow:  immortalwoe  hath  made 
My  heart  a  seer,  and  my  soul  a  judge 
Between  the  substance  and  the  shadow 

of  Truth. 
The  sure  supremeness  of  the  Beautiful, 
By  all  the  martyrdoms  made  doubly 

sure 
Of  such  as  I  am,  this  is  my  revenge, 
Which  of  my  wrongs  builds  a  trium- 
phal arch, 
Through  which  I  see  a  sceptre  and  a 

throne. 
The  pipings  of  glad  shepherds  on  the 

hills, 
Tending  the  flocks  no  more  to  bleed  for 

thee,  — 
The   songs  of  maidens  pressing  with 

white  feet 
The  vintage  on  thine  altars  poured  no 
more,  — 


The  murmurous  bliss  of  lovers,  under- 
neath 
Dim    grapevine    bowers,   whose    rosy 

bunches  press 
Not  half  so  closely  their  warm  cheeks, 

unpaled 
By  thoughts  of  thy  brute   lust,  —  the 

hive-like  hum 
Of   peaceful    commonwealths,     where 

sunburnt  Toil 
Reaps  for  itself  the  rich  earth  made  its 

own 
By  its  own  labor,   lightened  with  glad 

hymns 
To  an  omnipotence  which  thy  mad  bolts 
Would  cope  with  as  a  spark  with  the 

vast  sea,  — 
Even  the  spirit  of  free  love  and  peace, 
Duty's  sure   recompense   through  life 

and  death,  — 
These  are  such  harvests  as  all  master- 
spirits 
Reap,  haply  not  on  earth,  but  reapno  less 
Because  the  sheaves  are  bound  by  hands 

not  theirs ; 
These  are  the  bloodless  daggers  where- 
withal 
They  stab  fallen  tyrants,  this  their  high 

revenge : 
For  their  best  part  of  lifeonearthiswhen, 
Long  after  death,  prisoned  and  pent  no 

more, 
Their  thoughts,  their  wild  dreams  even, 

have  become 
Part  of  the  necessary  air  men  breathe  ; 
When,  like  the  moon,  herself  behind  a 

cloud, 
They  shed  down  light  before  us  on  life's 

sea, 
That  cheers  us  to  steer  onward  still  in 

hope. 
Earth  with  her  twining  memories  ivies 

o'er 
Their  holy   sepulchres ;  the  chainless 

sea, 
In  tempest  or  wide  calm,  repeats  their 

thoughts  ; 
The  lightning  and  the  thunder,  all  free 

things, 
Have  legendsof  them  fortheearsnfmen. 
All  other  glories  are  as  falling  stars, 
But  universal  Nature  watches  theirs  : 
Such  strength  is  won  by  love  of  human 

kind. 


34 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Not  that  I  feel  that  hunger  after  fame, 
Which   souls   of  a    half-greatness  are 

beset  with  ; 
But  that  the  memory  of  noble  deeds 
Cries  shame  upon  the  idle  and  the  vile, 
And  keeps  the  heart  of  Man  forever  up 
To  the  heroic  level  of  old  time. 
To  be  forgot  at  first  is  little  pain 
To  a  heart  conscious  of  such  high  intent 
As  must  be  deathless  on  the   lips  of 

men  ; 
But,  having  been  a  name,  to  sink  and  be 
A  something  which  the  world  can  do 

without, 
Which,    having  been    or    not,    would 

never  change 
Thelightest  pulse offate, — thisis  indeed 
A  cup  of  bitterness  the  worst  to  taste, 
And  this  thy  heart  shall  empty  to  the 

dregs. 
Endless  despair  shall  be  thy  Caucasus, 
Andmemory  thy  vulture  ;  thou  wilt  find 
Oblivion  far  lonelier  than  this  peak,  — 
Behold  thy  destiny  1     Thou  think'st  it 

much 
That  I   should  brave  thee,  miserable 

god  ! 
But  I   have  braved  a  mightier  than 

thou, 
Even  the  tempting  of  this  soaring  heart, 
Which  might  have  made  me,  scarcely 

less  than  thou, 
A  god  among  my  brethren  weak  and 

blind,  — 
Scarce  less  than  thou,  a  pitiable  thing 
To    be    down -trodden    into    darkness 

soon. 
But  now  I  am  above  thee,  for  thou  art 
The  bungling  workmanship  of  fear,  the 

block 
That  awes  the  swart  Barbarian  ;   but  I 
Am  what  myself  have  made,  —  a  nature 

wise 
With  finding  in  itself  the  types  of  all,  — 
With  watching  from  the  dim  verge  of 

the  time 
What  things  tobe  are  visible  in  thegleams 
Thrown   forward   on    them    from    the 

luminous  past,  — 
Wise  with  the  history  ofitsown  frail  heart. 
With  reverence  and  sorrow,  and  with 

love, 
Broad  as  the  world,  for  freedom  and  for 

man. 


Thou  and  all  strength  shall  crumble, 

except  Love, 
By  whom,  and  for  whose  glory,  ye  shall 

cease  : 
And,  when  thou  art  but  a  dim  moaning 

heard 
From  out  the  pitiless  glooms  of  Chaos,  I 
Shall  be  a  power  and  a  memory, 
A  name  to  fright  all  tyrants  with,  alight 
Unsetting  as  the  pole-star,  a  great  voice 
Heard  in  the  breathless  pauses  ofthe  fight 
By  truth  and  freedom  ever  waged  with 

wrong, 
Clear  as  a  silver  trumpet,  to  awake 
Huge  echoes  that  from  age  to  age  live  on 
In  kindred  spirits,  giving  them  a  sense 
Of  boundless   power    from    boundless 

suffering  wrung : 
And  manya  glazingeye  shall  smileto  see 
The  memory  of  my  triumph  (for  to  meet 
Wrong  with  endurance,  and  to  overcome 
The  present    with    a  heart  that  looks 

beyond, 
Aretriumph),  like  a  prophet  eagle,  perch 
Upon  the  sacred  banner  of  the  Right. 
Evil  springs  up,  and  flowers,  and  bean 

no  seed, 
And  feeds  the  green  earth  with  its  swift 

decay, 
Leaving  it  richer  for  the  growth  of  truth  ; 
But    Good,    once    put   in  action  or  in 

thought, 
Like  a  strong  oak,  doth  from  its  boughs 

shed  down 
The   ripe  germs   of  a  forest.     Thou, 

weak  god, 
Shalt  fade  and  be  forgotten  Ibutthissoul, 
Fresh-living  still  in  the  serene  abyss, 
Ineveryheavingshall  partake,  that  grows 
From  heart  to  heart  among  the  sons  of 

men,  — 
As  the  ominous  hum  before  the  earth- 
quake runs 
Far  through  the  ./Egean  from  roused 

isle  to  isle,  — 
Foreboding  wreck  topalacesand  shrines, 
And  mighty  rents  in  many  a  cavernous 

error 
That  darkens  the  free  light  to  man  :  — 

This  heart, 
Unscarred  by  thy  grim  vulture,  as  the 

truth 
Grows  but  more  lovely  'neath  the  beak» 

and  claws 


PROMETHEUS. 


35 


Of  Harpies  blind  that  fain  would  soil  it, 

shall 
In  all  the  throbbing  exultations  share 
That  wait  on  freedom's  triumphs,  and 

in  all 
The  glorious  agoniesofmartyr-spirits,  — 
Sharp     lightning-throes    to    split    the 

jagged  clouds 
That  veil  the  future,  showing  them  the 

end,  — 
Pain's  thorny  crown  for  constancy  and 

truth, 
Girding  the  templeslikea  wreath  of  stars. 
This  is  a  thought,  that,  like  the  fabled 

laurel, 
Makes  my  faith  thunder-proof;  and  thy 

dread  bolts 
Fall  ol  me  like  the  silent  flakes  of  snow 
On  the  hoar  brows  of  aged  Caucasus  : 
But,  O  thought  far  more  blissful,  they 

can  rend 
This  cloud  of  flesh,  and  make  my  soul 

a  star  ! 

Unleash  thy  crouching  thunders  now, 

O  Jove ! 
Free   this   high   heart,    which,   a  poor 

captive  long, 
Doth  knock  to  be  let  forth,   this   heart 

which  still, 
In  its  invincible  manhood,  overtops 
Thy  puny  godship,   as  this  mountain 

doth 
The  pines  that  moss  its  roots.    O,  even 

now, 
While  from  my  peak  of  suffering  I  look 

down, 
Beholding  with  a  far-spread  gush  of 

hope 
The  sunrise  of  that  Beauty,  in  whose 

face, 
Shone  all   around  with  love,  no  man 

shall  look 
But  straightway  like  a  god  he  is  uplift 
Unto   the   throne   long   empty  for  his 

sake, 
And  clearly  oft  foreshadowed  in  wide 

dreams 
By  his  free  inward  nature,  which  nor 

thou, 
Nor  any  anarch  after  thee,  can  bind 
From  working  its  great  doom,  —  now, 

now  set  free 
This  essence,  not  to  die,  but  to  become 


Part  of  that  awful  Presence  which  doth 

haunt 
The  palaces  of  tyrants,  to  hunt  off, 
With  its  grim  eyes  and  fearful  whisper- 
ings 
And  hideous  sense  of  utter  loneliness, 
All  hope  of  safety,  all  desire  of  peace, 
All  but  the  loathed  forefeeling  of  blank 

death,  — 
Part  of  that  spirit  which  doth  ever  brood 
In  patient  calm  on  the  unpilfered  nest 
Of    man's    deep     heart,     till     mighty 

thoughts  grow  fledged 
To  sail   with   darkening  shadow  o'eh 

the  world, 
Filling  with  dread  such  souls  as  dare         , 

not  trust 
In  the  unfailing  energy  of  Good, 
Until  they  swoop,  and  their  pale  quarry 

make 
Of    some    o'erbloated    wrong,  —  that 

spirit  which 
Scatters  great  hopes  in  the  seed-field 

of  man, 
Like  acorns  among  grain,  to  grow  and 

be 
A  roof  for  freedom  in  all  coming  time  ! 

But  no,  this  cannot  be  ;  for  ages  yet, 
In  solitude  unbroken,  shall  I  hear 
The  angry  Caspian  to  the  Euxine  shout. 
And  Euxine  answer  with  a  muffled  roar, 
On  either  side  storming  the  giant  walls 
Of  Caucasus  with  leagues  of  climbing 

foam 
(Less,  from  my  height,  than  flakes  of 

downy  snow1, 
That  draw  back  baffled  but  tohurl  again, 
Snatched  up  in  wrath  and  horrible  tur- 
moil, 
Mountain  on  mountain,  as  the  Titans 

erst, 
My  brethren,  scaling  the  high  seat  of 

Jove, 
Heaved  Pelion  upon  Ossa's  shoulders 

broad 
In  vain  emprise.    The  moon  will  come 

and  go 
With  her  monotonous  vicissitude  ; 
Once  beautiful,  when  I  was  free  to  walk 
Among  my  fellows,  and  to  interchange 
The  influence  benign  of  loving  eyes, 
But   now  by   aged   use  grown   wean- 

some  :  — 


36 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


False  thought  !    most  false  !    for  how 

could  I  endure 
These  crawling  centuries  of  lonely  woe 
Unshamed  by  weak  complaining,  but 

for  thee, 
Loneliest,  save  me,  of  all  created  things, 
Mild-eyed  Astarte,  my  best  comforter, 
With  thy  pale  smile  of  sad  benignity? 

Year  after  year  will  pass  away  and 

seem 
To  me,  in  mine  eternal  agony, 
But  as  the  shadows  of  dumb  summer 

clouds, 
Which  I  have  watched  so  often  darken- 
ing o'er 
The  vast  Sarmatian  plain,  league-wide 

at  first, 
But,  with  still  swiftness,  lessening  on 

and  on 
Till  cloud  and  shadow  meet  and  mingle 

where 
The  gray  horizon  fades  into  the  sky, 
Far,  far  to  northward.     Yes,  for  ages 

yet 
Must  I  lie  here  upon  my  altar  huge, 
A  sacrifice  for  man.     Sorrow  will  be, 
As  it  hath  been,  his  portion  ;  endless 

doom, 
While   the   immortal  with  the  mortal 

linked 
Dreams  of  its  wings  and  pines  for  what 

it  dreams, 
With  upward  yearn  unceasing.    Better 

so  : 
For  wisdom  is  meek  sorrow's  patient 

child, 
And  empire  over    self,    and    all    the 

deep 
Strong  charities  that  make  men  seem 

like  gods ; 
And  love,  that  makes  them  be  gods, 

from  her  breasts 
Slicks  in  the  milk  that  makes  mankind 

one  blood. 
Good  never  comes  unmixed,  or  so  it 

seems, 
Having  two  faces,  as  some  images 
Are  carved,  of  foolish  gods ;  one  face 

is  ill  ; 
But  one  heart  lies  beneath,  and  that  is 

good, 
As  are  all  hearts,  when  we  explore  their 

depths. 


Therefore,  great  heart,  bear  up  !  thou 

art  but  type 
Of  what  all  lofty  spirits  endure,  that 

fain 
Would  win  men  back  to  strength  a»d 

peace  through  love : 
Each  hath  his  lonely  peak,  and  on  each 

heart 
Envy,  or  scorn,  or  hatred,  tears  lifelong 
With  vulture  beak  ;  yet  the  high  soul 

is  left ; 
And  faith,  which  is  but  hope  grown 

wise  ;  and  love 
And  patience,  which  at  last  shall  over- 
come. 

1843. 


SONG. 


Violet  !  sweet  violet ! 
Thine  eyes  are  full  of  tears ; 
Are  they  wet 
Even  yet 
With  the  thought  of  other  years? 
Or  with  gladness  are  they  full, 
For  the  night  so  beautiful, 
And  longing  for  those  far-off  spheres? 

Loved  one  of  my  youth  thou  wast, 
Of  my  merry  youth, 
And  I  see, 
Tearfully, 
All  the  fair  and  sunny  past, 
All  its  openness  and  truth. 
Ever  fresh  and  green  in  thee 
As  the  moss  is  in  the  sea. 

Thy  little  heart,  that  hath  with  love 
Grown  colored  like  the  sky  above, 
On  which  thou  lookest  ever,  — 
Can  it  know 
All  the  woe 
Of  hope  for  what  returneth  never, 
All  the  sorrow  and  the  longing 
To  these  hearts  of  ours  belonging  ? 

Out  on  it  !  no  foolish  pining 

For  the  sky 

Dims  thine  eye, 
Or  for  the  stars  so  calmly  shining ; 
Like  thee  let  this  soul  of  mine 
Take  hue  from  that  wherefor  I  long, 


ROSALINE. 


37 


Self-stayed  and  high,  serene  and  strong, 
Not  satisfied  with  hoping  —  but  divine. 

Violet  !  dear  violet  ! 

Thy  blue  eyes  are  only  wet 
With  joy  and  love  of  Him  who  sent  thee, 
And  lor  the  fulfilling  sense 
Of  that  glad  obedience 
Which  made  thee  all  that  Nature  meant 
thee  ! 

1841. 


ROSALINE. 

Thou  look'dst  on  me  all  yesternight. 
Thine  eyeswere  blue,  thy  hairwasbright 
As  when  we  murmured  our  troth-plight 
Beneath  the  thick  stars,  Rosaline  ! 
Thy  hair  was  braided  on  thy  head, 
As  on  the  day  we  two  were  wed, 
Mine  eyes   scarce   knew   if  thou  wert 

dead,  — 
But  my  shrunk  heart  knew,  Rosaline  I 

Thedeath-watch  ticked  behind  the  wall, 
The  blackness  rustled  like  a  pall, 
The  moaning  wind  did  rise  and  fall 
Among  the  bleak  pines,  Rosaline  ! 
My  heart  beat  thickly  in  mine  ears  : 
The  lids  may  shut  out  fleshly  fears, 
But  still  the  spirit  sees  and  hears,  — 
Its  eyes  are  lidless,  Rosaline  1 

A  wildness  rushing  suddenly, 

A  knowing  some  ill  shape  is  nigh, 

A  wish  for  death,  a  fear  to  die,  — 

Is  not  this  vengeance,  Rosaline? 

A  loneliness  that  is  not  lone, 

A  love  quite  withered  up  and  gone, 

A  strong  soul  trampled  from  its  throne,  — 

What  wouldst  thou  further,  Rosaline  ? 

'Tis  drear  such  moonlessnightsas  these, 
Strange  sounds  are  out  upon  the  breeze, 
And  the  leaves  shiver  in  the  trees, 
And  then  thou  comest,  Rosaline  ! 
I  seem  to  hear  the  mourners  go, 
With  long  black  garments  trailing  slow, 
And  plumes  anodding  to  and  fro, 
As  once  1  heard  them,  Rosaline  ! 

Thy  shroud  is  all  of  snowy  white, 
And,  in  the  middle  of  the  night, 
Thou  standest  moveless  and  upright, 


Gazing  upon  me,  Rosaline  ! 
There  is  no  sorrow  in  thine  eyes, 
But  evermore  that  meek  surprise, — 

0  God  !  thy  gentle  spirit  tries 
To  deem  me  guiltless,  Rosaline  ! 

Above  thy  grave  the  robin  sings, 

And  swarms  of  bright  and  happy  things 

Flit  all  about  with  sunlit  wings,  — 

But  I  am  cheerless,  Rosaline  1 

The  violets  on  the  hillock  toss, 

The  gravestone  is  o'ergrown  with  moss; 

For  nature  feels  not  any  loss,  — 

But  I  am  cheerless,  Rosaline  ! 

1  did  not  know  when  thou  wast  dead  ; 
A  blackbird  whistling  overhead 
Thrilled  through  my  brain;    I   would 

have  fled, 
But  dared  not  leave  thee,  Rosaline  ! 
The  sun  rolled  down,  and  very  soon, 
Like  a  great  fire,  the  awful  moon 
Rose,  stained  with  blood,  and  then  a 

swoon 
Crept  chilly  o'er  me,  Rosaline  ! 

The  stars  came  out ;  and,  one  by  one, 
Each  angel  from  his  silver  throne 
Looked  down  and  saw  what  I  had  done  : 
I  dared  not  hide  me,  Rosaline  ! 
I  crouched;  Beared  thy  corpse  would  cry 
Against  me  to  God's  quiet  sky, 
I  thought  I  saw  the  blue  lips  try 
To  utter  something,  Rosaline  I 

I  waited  with  a  maddened  grin 

To  hear  that  voice  all  icy  thin 

Slide  forth  and  tell  my  deadly  sin 

To  hell  and  heaven,  Rosaline  I 

But  no  voice  came,  and  then  it  seemed, 

That,  if  the  very  corpse  had  screamed, 

The    sound    like    sunshine   glad    had 

streamed 
Through  that  dark  stillness,  Rosaline  1 

And  then,  amid  the  silent  night, 
I  screamed  with  horrible  delight, 
And  in  my  brain  an  awful  light 
Did  seem  to  crackle,  Rosaline  ! 
It  is  my  curse  !  sweet  memories  fall 
From  me  like  snow,  —  and  only  all 
Of  that  one  night,  like  cold  worms,  crawl 
My  doomed  heart  over,  Rosaline  ! 


33 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Why  wilt  thou  haunt  me  withthineeyes, 
Wherein  such  blessed  memories, 
Such  pitying  forgiveness  lies, 
Than  hate  more  bitter,  Rosaline  ? 
Woe  's  me  !  I  know  that  love  so  high 
As  thine,  true  soul,  could  never  die, 
And  with  mean  clayinchurchyardlie,  — 
Would  it  might  be  so,  Rosaline  ! 
1841. 


THE   SHEPHERD   OF   KING 
ADMETUS. 

There  came  a  youth  upon  the  earth, 

Some  thousand  years  ago, 
Whose    slender    hands   were   nothing 

worth, 
Whether  to  plough,  or  reap,  or  sow. 

Upon  an  empty  tortoise-shell 

He  stretched  some  chords,  and  drew 
Music  that  made  men's  bosoms  swell 
Fearless,   or  brimmed  their  eyes  with 
dew. 

Then  King  Admetus,  one  who  had 

Pure  taste  by  right  divine, 
Decreed  his  singing  not  too  bad 
To  hear  between  the  cups  of  wine  : 

And  so,  well  pleased  with  being  soothed 

Into  a  sweet  half-sleep, 
Three     times     his    kingly    beard    he 

smoothed, 
And  made  him  viceroy  o'er  his  sheep. 

His  words  were  simple  words  enough, 

And  yet  he  used  them  so, 
That  what  in  other  mouths  was  rough 
In  hie  seemed  musical  and  low. 

Men  called  him  but  a  shiftless  youth, 

In  whom  no  good  they  saw ; 
And  yet,  unwittingly,  in  truth, 
They  made  his  careless  words  their  law. 

They  knew  not  how  he  learned  at  all, 

For  idly,  hour  by  hour, 
He  sat  and  watched  the  dead  leaves  fall, 
Or  mused  upon  a  common  flower. 

It  seemed  the  loveliness  of  things 
Did  teach  him  all  their  use, 


For,  in  mere  weeds,  and   stones,  .'vnd 

springs, 
He  found  a  healing  power  profuse. 

Men  granted  that  his  speech  was  wise, 

But,  when  a  glance  they  caught 
Of  his  slim  grace  and  woman's  eyes. 
They  laughed,  and  called  him  good-for 
naught. 

Vet  after  he  was  dead  and  gone, 

And  e'en  his  memory  dim, 
Earth  seemed  more  sweet  to  live  unot\ 
More  full  of  love,  because  of  him. 

And  day  by  day  more  holy  grew 
Each  spot  where  he  had  trod, 
Till  after-poets  only  knew 
Their  first-born  brother  as  a  god. 

1842. 


THE   TOKEN. 

It  is  a  mere  wild  rosebud, 

Quite  sallow  now,  and  dry, 
Yet  there  's  something wondrousin  it, — 

Some  gleams  of  days  gone  by,  — 
Dear  sights  and  sounds  that  are  to  me 
The  very  moons  of  memory, 
And  stir  my  heart's  blood  far  below 
Its  short-lived  waves  of  joy  and  woe. 

Lips  must  fade  and  roses  wither, 

All  sweet  times  be  o'er,  — 
They    only     smile,     and,    murmuring 
"  Thither !  " 

Stay  with  us  no  more  : 
And  yet  ofttimes  a  look  or  smile, 
Forgotten  in  a  kiss's  while. 
Years  after  from  the  dark  will  start, 
And  flash  across  the  trembling  heart. 

Thou  hast  given  me  many  roses, 

But  never  one,  like  this, 
O'erfloods  both  sense  and  spirit 

With  such  a  deep,  wild  bliss  ; 
We  must  have  instincts  that  glean  up 
Sparse  drops  of  this  life  in  the  cup, 
Whose  taste  shall  give  us  all  that  we 
Can  prove  of  immortality. 

Earth's  stablest  things  are  shad«*-«, 
And,  to  th&  Uv  r-  *»»■»*.» 


AN  INCIDENT  IN  A    RAILROAD   CAR. 


39 


Hapiy  some  chance-saved  trifle 

May  tell  of  this  old  home  : 
As  now  sometimes  we  seem  to  find, 
In  a  dark  crevice  of  the  mind. 
Some  relic,  which,  long  pondered  o'er, 
Hints  faintly  at  a  life  before. 


AN  INCIDENT  IN  A  RAILROAD 
CAR. 

He  spoke  of  Burns :  men  rude  and 

rough 
Pressed  roundtohearthe  praiseof  one 
Whose  heart  was  made  of  manly,  simple 
stuff, 
As  homespun  as  their  own. 

And,  when   he  read,    they    forward 

leaned, 
Drinking,  withthirsty hearts  and  ears, 
His  brook-like  songs  whom  glory  never 
weaned 
From  humble  smiles  and  tears. 

Slowly  there  grew  a  tender  awe, 
Sun-like,  o'er  faces  brown  and  hard, 
As  if  in  him  who  read  they  felt  and  saw 
Some  presence  of  the  bard. 

It  was  a  sight  for  sin  and  wrong 
And  slavish  tyranny  to  see, 
A  sight  to  make  our  faith  more  pure  and 
strong 
In  high  humanity. 

I  thought,  these  men  will  carry  hence 
Promptings  their  former  life  above, 
And  something  of  a  finer  reverence 
For  beauty,  truth,  and  love. 

God  scatters  love  on  every  side, 
Freely  among  his  children  all, 
And  always  hearts  are  lying  open  wide, 
Wherein  some  grains  may  fall. 

There  is  no  wind  but  soweth  seeds 
Of  a  more  true  and  open  life, 
Which  burst,  unlooked  for,  into  high- 
souled  deeds, 
With  wayside  beauty  rife. 


We  find  within  these  souls  of  ours 

Some  wild  germs  of  a  higher  birth, 

Which  in  the  poet's  tropic  heart  bear 

flowers 

Whose  fragrance  fills  the  earth. 

Within  the  hearts  of  all  men  lie 
These  promises  of  wider  bliss, 
Which  blossom  into  hopes  that  cannot 
die, 
In  sunny  hours  like  this. 

All  that  hath  been  majestical 
In  life  or  death,  since  time  began, 
Is  native  in  the  simple  heart  of  all, 
The  angel  heart  of  man. 

And  thus,  among  the  untaught  poor, 
Great  deeds  and  feelings  find  a  home, 
That  cast  in  shadow  all  the  golden  lore 
Of  classic  Greece  and  Rome. 

O,  mighty  brother-soul  of  man, 
Where'er  thou  art,  in  low  or  high, 
Thy  skyey  arches  with  exulting  span 
O'er-roof  infinity  ! 

All  thoughts  that  mould  the  age  begin 
Deep  down  within  the  primitive  soul, 
And  from  the  many  slowly  upward  win 
To  one  who  grasps  the  whole  : 

In  his  wide  brain  the  feeling  deep 
That  struggled  on  the  many's  tongue 
Swells  to  a  tide  of  thought,  whose  surges 
leap 
O'er  the  weak  thrones  of  wrong. 

All  thought  begins  in  feeling,  — wide 
In  the  great  mass  its  base  is  hid, 
And,  narrowing  up  to  thought,  stands 
glorified, 
A  moveless  pyramid. 

Nor  is  he  far  astray  who  deems 
That   every   hope,   which   rises  and 
grows  broad 
In  the  world's  heart,  by  ordered  im- 
pulse streams 
From  the  great  heart  of  God. 

God  wills,  man  hopes  :incommon  souls 
Hope  is  but  vague  and  undefined. 


4° 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Till  from  the  poet's  tongue  the  message 
rolls 
A  blessing  to  his  kind. 

Never  did  Poesy  appear 
So  full  of  heaven  to  me,  as  when 
I  saw  how  it  would  pierce  through  pride 
and  fear 
To  the  lives  of  coarsest  men. 

It  may  be  glorious  to  write 
Thoughts  that  shall  glad  the  two  or 
three 
High   souls,   like   those  far  stars  that 
come  in  sight 
Once  in  a  century  ;  — 

But  better  far  it  is  to  speak 
One  simple  word,  which  now  and  then 
Shall  waken  their   free  nature  in   the 
weak 
And  friendless  sons  of  men  ; 

To  write  some  earnest  verse  or  line, 
Which,  seeking  not  the  praise  of  art, 
Shall  make  a  clearer  faith  and  manhood 
shine 
In  the  untutored  heart. 

He  who  doth  this,  in  verse  or  prose, 
May  be  forgotten  in  his  day, 
But  surely  shall  be  crowned  at  last  with 
those 
Who  live  and  speak  for  aye. 
1842. 


RHCECUS. 

God  sends  his  teachers  unto  every  age, 
To  every  clime,  and  every  race  of  men. 
With  revelations  fitted  to  their  growth 
And  shape  of  mind,  nor  gives  the  realm 

of  Truth 
Into  the  selfish  rule  of  one  sole  race  : 
Therefore  each  form  of  worship  that 

hath  swayed 
The  life  of  man,  and  given  it  to  grasp 
The  master-key  of  knowledge,   rever- 
ence, 
Infolds  some  germs  of  goodness   and 

of  right  ; 
Else  never  had  the  eager  soul,  which 
loathes 


The  slothful  down  of  pampered  igno- 
rance, 
Found  in  it  even  a  moment's  fitful  rest. 

There  is  an   instinct  in  the  human 

heart 
Which  makes  that  all  the  fables  it  hath 

coined, 
To  justify  the  reign  of  its  belief 
And   strengthen   it   by  beauty's   right 

divine, 
Veil  in  their  inner  cells  a  mystic  gift, 
Which,  like  the  hazel  twig,  in  faithful 

hands, 
Points  surely  to  the  hidden  springs  of 

truth. 
For,  as   in   nature  naught  is  made  in 

vain, 
But  all  things  have  within  their  hull  of 

use 
A  wisdom  and  a  meaning  which  may 

speak 
Of  spiritual  secrets  to  the  ear 
Of  spirit  ;  so,  in  whatsoe'er  the  heart 
Hath  fashioned  for  a  solace  to  itself, 
To  make  its  inspirations  suit  its  creed, 
And  from  the  niggard  hands  of  false- 
hood wring 
Its  needful  food  of  truth,  there  ever  is 
A  sympathy  with   Nature,   which   re- 
veals, 
Not   less   than   her  own  works,  pure 

gleams  of  light 
And  earnest  parables  of  inward  lore. 
Hear    now   this    fairy   legend    of   old 

Greece, 
As  full  of  freedom,  youth,  and  beauty 

still 
As  the  immortal  freshness  of  that  grace 
Carved  for  all  ages  on  some  Attic  frieze. 

A  youth  named  Rhcecus,  wandering 
in  the  wood. 

Saw  an  old  oak  just  trembling  to  its 
fall, 

And,  feeling  pity  of  so  fair  a  tree, 

He  propped  its  gray  trunk  with  admir- 
ing care, 

And  with  a  thoughtless  footstep  loitered 
on. 

But,  as  he  turned,  he  heard  a  voice  be- 
hind 

That  murmured  "  Rhcecus  1  "  'T  was 
as  if  the  leaves, 


RH(ECUS. 


Stirred  by  a  passing  breath,  had  mtir- 

nmred  it, 
And,  while  he  paused  bewildered,  yet 

again 
It  murmured  "  Rhcecus  !  "  softer  than 

a  breeze. 
He  started  and  beheld  with  dizzy  eyes 
What  seemed  the  substance  of  a  happy 

dream 
Stand  there   before  him,    spreading  a 

warm  glow 
Within  the  green  glooms  of  the  shad- 
owy oak. 
It  seemed  a  woman's  shape,  yet  all  too 

fair 
To  be  a  woman,  and  with  eyes  too  meek 
For  any  that  were  wont  to  mate  with 

gods. 
All   naked   like   a  goddess  stood  she 

there, 
And  like  a  goddess  all  too  beautiful 
To  feel   the  guilt-born  earthliness  of 

shame. 
"  Rhcecus,  I  am  the  Dryad  of  this  tree," 
Thus   she   began,    dropping   her   low- 
toned  words 
Serene,  and  full,  and  clear,  as  drops  of 

dew, 
"  And  with  it  I  am  doomed  to  live  and 

die  ; 
The  rain  and  sunshine  are  my  caterers, 
Nor  have  I  other  bliss  than  simple  life  ; 
Now  ask  me  what  thou  wilt,  that  I  can 

give, 
And  with   a   thankful   joy  it   shall  be 

thine." 

Then  Rhcecus,  with  a  flutter  at  the 

heart, 
Yet,  by  the  prompting  of  such  beauty, 

bold, 
Answered  :    "  What  is  there  that  can 

satisfy 
The  endless  craving  of  the  soul  but 

love? 
Give  me  thy  love,  or  but  the  hope  of 

that 
WThich  must  be  evermore  my  spirit's 

goal." 
After  a  little  pause  she  said  again, 
But  with  a  glimpse  of  sadness  in  her 

tone, 
''  I  give  it,  Rhcecus,  though  a  perilous 

gift; 


An  hour  before  the  sunset  meet  me 
here." 

And  straightway  there  was  nothing  he 
could  see 

But  the  i;reen  glooms  beneath  the  shad- 
owy oak. 

And  not  a  sound  came  to  his  straining 
ears 

But  the  low  trickling  rustle  of  the 
leaves, 

And  far  away  upon  an  emerald  slope 

The  falter  of  an  idle  shepherd's  pipe. 

Now,  in  those  days  of  simpleness  and 

faith, 
Men  did  not  think  that  happy  things 

were  dreams 
Because  they  overstepped  the  narrow 

bourne 
Of  likelihood,  but  reverently  deemed 
Nothing  too  wondrous  or  too  beauti- 
ful 
To  be  the  guerdon  of  a  daring  heart. 
So  Rhcecus  made  no  doubt  that  he  was 

blest, 
And  all  along  unto  the  city's  gate 
Earth  seemed  to  spring  beneath  him  as 

he  walked, 
The  clear,  broad  sky  looked  bluer  than 

its  wont, 
And  he  could  scarce  believe  he  had  not 

wings, 
Such  sunshine  seemed  to  glitter  through 

his  veins 
Instead  of  blood,  so  light  he  felt  and 

strange. 

Young  Rhcecus  had  a  faithful  heart 

enough, 
But  one  that  in  the  present  dwelt  too 

much, 
And,  taking  with  blithe  welcome  what- 
soe'er 
Chance  gave  of  joy,  was  wholly  bound 

in  that, 
Like     the     contented     peasant     of  a 

vale, 
Deemed  it  the  world,  and  never  looked 

beyond. 
So,  haply  meeting  in  the  afternoon 
Some  comrades  who  were  playing  a\. 

the  dice, 
He  joined  them,  and  forgot  all  else  be 

side. 


4,2 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


The  dice  were  rattling  at  the  mer- 
riest, 

And  Rhcecus,  who  had  met  but  sorry 
luck, 

Just  laughed  in  triumph  at  a  happy 
throw. 

When  through  the  room  there  hummed 
a  yellow  bee 

That  buzzed  about  his  ear  with  down- 
dropped  legs 

As  if  to  light.  And  Rhcecus  laughed 
and  said, 

Feeling  how  red  and  flushed  he  was 
with  loss, 

"  By  Venus  !  does  he  take  me  for  a 
rose  ?  " 

And  brushed  him  off  with  rough,  im- 
patient hand. 

But  still  the  bee  came  back,  and  thrice 
again 

Rhcecus  did  beat  him  off  with  growing 
wrath. 

Then  through  the  window  flew  the 
wounded  bee, 

And  Rhcecus,  tracking  him  with  angry 
eyes, 

Saw  a  sharp  mountain-peak  of  Thessaly 

Against  the  red  disk  of  the  setting 
sun,  — 

And  instantly  the  blood  sank  from  his 
heart, 

As  if  its  very  walls  had  caved  away. 

Without  a  word  he  turned,  and,  rush- 
ing forth, 

Ran  madly  through  the  city  and  the 
gate, 

And  o'er  the  plain,  which  now  the 
wood's  long  shade, 

By  the  low  sun  thrown  forward  broad 
and  dim, 

Darkened  wellnigh  unto  the  city's  wall. 

Quite  spent  and  out  of  breath  he 
reached  the  tree, 

And,  listening  fearfully,  he  heard  once 
more 

The  low  voice  murmur  "  Rhcecus  !  " 
close  at  hand  : 

Whereat  he  looked  around  him,  but 
could  see 

Naught  but  the  deepening  glooms  be- 
neath the  oak. 

Then  sighed  the  voice,  "  O  Rhcecus  ! 
nevermore 


Shalt   thou  behold  me  or  by  day  or 

night, 
Me,  who  would  fain  have  blessed  thee 

with  a  love 
More  ripe  and  bounteous  than  ever  yet 
Filled  up  with  nectar  any  mortal  heart : 
But  thou  didst  scorn  my  humble  mes- 
senger, 
And    sent'st    him    back    to  me    with 

bruised  wings. 
We  spirits  only  show  to  gentle  eyes, 
We  ever  ask  an  undivided  love. 
And  he  who  scorns  the  least  of  Nature's 

works 
Is  thenceforth  exiled  and  shut  out  from 

all. 
Farewell  !  for  thou  canst  never  see  me 

more." 

Then  Rhcecus  beat  his  breast,  and 

groaned  aloud, 
And  cried,  "  Be  pitiful  !  forgive  me  yet 
This  once,  and  I  shall  never  need  it 

more  !  " 
"  Alas  !  "    the  voice    returned,   "  't  is 

thou  art  blind, 
Not  I  unmerciful ;   I  can  forgive, 
But  have  no  skill  to  heal  thy  spirit's  eyes; 
Only  the  soul  hath  power  o'er  itself." 
With    that     again     there    murmured 

"  Nevermore  !  " 
And  Rhcecus  after  heard  no  other  sound, 
Except  the  rattling  of  the  oak's  crisp 

leaves, 
Like  the  long  surf  upon  a  distant  shore, 
Raking  the  sea-worn  pebbles  up  and 

down. 
The  night  had   gathered  round  him  : 

o'er  the  plain 
The   city  sparkled   with  its  thousand 

lights, 
And  sounds  of  revel  fell  upon  his  ear 
Harshly  and  like  a  curse:  above,  the  sky, 
With  all  its  bright  sublimity  of  stars, 
Deepened,  and  on  his  forehead  smote 

the  breeze  :         . 
Beauty  was  all  around  him  and  delight, 
But  from  that  eve  he  was  alone  on  earth. 


THE  FALCON. 

I  know  a  falcon  swift  and  peerless 
As  e'er  was  cradled  in  the  pine  ; 


THE  FALCON.  — TRIAL.  — A    REQUIEM. 


43 


No  bird  had  ever  eye  so  fearless, 
Or  wing  so  strong  as  this  of  mine. 

The  winds  not  better  lovte  to  pilot 
A  cloud  with  molten  gold  o'errun, 

Than  him,  a  little  burning  islet, 
A  star  above  the  coming  sun. 

For  with  a  lark's  heart  he  doth  tower, 
By  a  glorious  upward  instinct  drawn  ; 

No  bee  nestles  deeper  in  the  flower 
Than  he  in  the  bursting  rose  of  dawn. 

No  harmless  dove,  no  bird  that  singeth, 
Shudders  to  see  him  overhead  ; 

The  rush  of  his  fierce  swooping  bringeth 
To  innocent  hearts  no  thrill  of  dread. 

Let  fraud  and  wrong  and  baseness  shiver, 
For  still  between  them  and  the  sky 

The  falcon  Truth  hangs  poised  forever 
Andmarks  them  with  his  vengeful  eye. 


TRIAL. 


Whether  the  idle  prisoner  through  his 

grate 
Watches  the  waving  of  the  grass-tuft 

small, 
Which,  having  colonized  its  rift  i'  the 

wall, 
Takes  its  free  risk  of  good  or  evil  fate, 
And,  from  the  sky's  just  helmet  draws 

its  lot 
Daily  of  shower  or  sunshine,   cold  or 

hot  ;  — 
Whether  the  closer  captive  of  a  creed, 
Cooped  up  from  birth  to  grind  out  end- 
less chaff, 
Sees  through    his    treadmill-bars   the 

noonday  laugh, 
And  feels  in  vain  his  crumpled  pinions 

breed ;  — 
Whether  the    Georgian  slave  look  up 

and  mark, 
With  bellying  sails  puffed  full,  the  tall 

cloud-bark 
Sink   northward  slowly,  —  thou  alone 

seem'st  good, 
Fair  only  thou,  O  Freedom,  whosedesire 


Can  light  in  muddiest  souls  quick  seeds 

of  fire, 
And   strain    life's    chords    to  the    old 

heroic  mood. 


Yet  are  there  other  gifts  more  fair  than 

thine, 
Nor  can  I  count  him  happiest  who  has 

never 
Been  forced  with   his  own  hand   his 

chains  to  sever, 
And  for  himself  find  out  the  way  divine  ; 
He  never  knew  the  aspirer's  glorious 

pains, 
He  never  earned  the  struggle's  priceless 

gains. 
O,  block  by  block,  with  sore  and  sharp 

endeavor, 
Lifelong  we  build  these  human  natures 

"P 
Into  a  temple  fit  for  freedom's  shrine, 
And  Trial  ever  consecrates  the  cup 
Wherefrom  we  pour  her  sacrificial  wme. 


A  REQUIEM. 

Ay,  pale  and  silent  maiden, 

Cold  as  thou  liest  there, 
Thine  was  the  sunniest  nature 

That  ever  drew  the  air, 
The  wildest  and  most  wayward, 

And  yet  so  gently  kind, 
Thou  seemedst  but  to  body 

A  breath  of  summer  wind. 

Into  the  eternal  shadow 

That  girds  our  life  around, 
Into  the  infinite  silence 

Wherewith  Death's  shore  is  bound, 
Thou  hast  gone  forth,  beloved  ! 

And  I  were  mean  to  weep, 
That  thou  has  left  Life's  shallows, 

And  dost  possess  the  Deep. 

Thou  liest  low  and  silent, 
Thy  heart  is  cold  and  still, 

Thine  eyes  are  shut  forever, 
And  Death  hath  had  his  will  ; 

He  loved  and  would  have  taken, 
I  loved  and  would  have  kept, 


44 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


We  strove,  — ■  and  he  was  stronger, 
And  I  have  never  wept. 

Let  him  possess  thy  body, 

Thy  soul  is  still  with  me, 
More  sunny  and  more  gladsome 

Than  it  was  wont  to  be  : 
Thy  body  was  a  fetter 

That  bound  me  to  the  flesh, 
Thank  God  that  it  is  broken, 

And  now  I  live  afresh  ! 

Now  I  can  see  thee  clearly ; 

The  dusky  cloud  of  clay, 
That  hid  thy  starry  spirit, 

Is  rent  and  blown  away: 
To  earth  I  give  thy  body, 

Thy  spirit  to  the  sky, 
I  saw  its  bright  wings  growing, 

And  knew  that  thou  must  fly. 

Now  I  can  love  thee  truly, 

For  nothing  comes  between 
The  senses  and  the  spirit, 

The  seen  and  the  unseen  ; 
Lifts  the  eternal  shadow, 

The  silence  bursts  apart, 
And  the  soul's  boundless  future 

Is  present  in  my  heart. 


A  PARABLE. 

Worn  and  footsore  was  the  Prophet, 
When  he  gained  the  holy  hill  ; 

"Godhasleft  the  earth,"  he  murmured, 
"  Here  his  presence  lingers  still. 

"  God  of  all  the  olden  prophets, 

Wilt  thou  speak  with  men  no  more? 

Have  I  not  as  truly  served  thee 
As  thy  chosen  ones  of  yore? 

"  Hear  me.  guider  of  my  fathers, 
Lo  !  a  humble  heart  is  mine  ; 

By  thy  mercy  I  beseech  thee 
Grant  thy  servant  but  a  sign  ! " 

Bowing  then  his  head,  he  listened 
For  an  answer  to  his  prayer  ; 

No  loud  burst  of  thunder  followed, 
Not  a  murmur  stirred  the  air  :  — 


But  the  tuft  of  moss  before  him 
Opened  while  he  waited  yet, 

And,  from  out  the  rock's  hard  bosom, 
Sprang  a  tender  violet. 

"God!     I     thank     thee,"     said     the 
Prophet ; 

"  Hard  of  heart  and  blind  was  I, 
Looking  to  the  holy  mountain 

For  the  gift  of  prophecy. 

"  Still  thou  speakest  with  thy  children 

Freely  as  in  eld  sublime  ; 
Humbleness,  and  love,  and  patience, 

Still  give  empire  over  time. 

"  Had  I  trusted  in  my  nature, 
And  had  faith  in  lowly  things, 

Thou  thyself  wouldst  then  have  sought 
me, 
And  set  free  my  spirit's  wings. 

"  But  I  looked  for  signs  and  wonders, 
That  o'er  men  should  give  me  sway; 

Thirsting  to  be  more  than  mortal, 
I  was  even  less  than  clay. 

"  Ere  I  entered  on  my  journey, 

As  I  girt  my  loins  to  start, 
Ran  to  me  my  little  daughter, 

The  beloved  of  my  heart ;  — 

"  In  her  hand  she  held  a  flower, 
Like  to  this  as  like  may  be, 

Which,  beside  my  very  threshold, 
She  had  plucked  and  brought  to  me." 

1842. 


A  GLANCE  BEHIND  THE  CUR- 
TAIN. 

We  see  but  half  the  causes  of  our  deeds, 
Seeking  them  wholly  in  the  outer  life, 
And  heedless  of  the  encircling  spirit- 
world, 
Which,    though    unseen,    is   felt,    and 

sows  in  us 
All  germs  of  pure  and  world-wide  pur- 
poses. 
From  one  stage  of  our  being  to  the  next 
We   pass   unconscious   o'er  a   slender 
bridge, 


A    GLANCE   BEHIND    THE   CURTAIN. 


45 


The  momentary  work  of  unseen  hands, 
Which    crumbles    down    behind    us  ; 

looking  back, 
We  see  the  other  shore,  the  gulf  be- 
tween, 
And,  marvelling  how  we  won  to  where 

we  stand, 
Content  ourselves  to  call  the  builder 

Chance, 
We  trace  the  wisdom  to  the  apple's  fall, 
Not  to  the  birth-throes   of  a    mighty 

Truth 
Which,   for  long  ages  in  blank  Chaos 

dumb, 
Yet  yearned  to  be  incarnate,  and  had 

found 
At  last  a  spirit  meet  to  be  the  womb 
From  which  it  might  be  born  to  bless 

mankind,  — 
Not  to  the  soul  of  Newton,  ripe  with  all 
The  hoarded  thoughtfulness  of  earnest 

years, 
«»nd  waiting  but  one  ray  of  sunlight 

more 
To  blossom  fully. 

But  whence  came  that  ray  ? 
We  call  our  sorrows  Destiny,  but  ought 
Rather  to  name  our  high  successes  so. 
Only  the  instincts  of greatsoulsare  Fate, 
And  have  predestined  sway :  all  other 

things, 
Except  by  leave  of  us,  could  never  be. 
For  Destiny  is  but  the  breath  of  God 
Still  moving  in  us,  the  last  fragment  left 
Of  our  unfallen  nature,  waking  oft 
Within  our  thought,  to  beckon  us  be- 
yond 
The  narrow   circle   of   the    seen  and 

known, 
And  always  tending  to  a  noble  end, 
As  all  things  must  that  overrule  the 

soul, 
And  for  a  space  unseat  the  helmsman, 

Will. 
The  fate  of  England  and  of  freedom 

once 
Seemed  wavering  in  the  heart  of  one 

plain  man  : 
One  step  of  his,   and  the  great  dial- 
hand, 
That  marks  the  destined  progress  of 

the  world 
In  the  eternal  round  from  wisdom  on 


To  higher  wisdom,  had  been  made  to 

pause 
A  hundred  years.     That  step  he  did 

not  take,  — 
He  knew  not  why,  nor  we,  but  only 

God, — 
And  lived   to  make  his  simple  oaken 

chair 
More  terrible  and  grandly  beautiful, 
More  full  of  majesty  than  any  throne, 
Before  or  after,  of  a  British  king. 

Upon  the  pier  stood  two  stern-vis- 
aged  men, 

Looking  to  where  a  little  craft  lay 
moored, 

Swayed  by  the  lazy  current  of  the 
Thames, 

Which  weltered  by  in  muddy  listless- 
ness. 

Grave  men  they  were,  and  battlings  of 
fierce  thought 

Had  trampled  out  all  softness  from 
their  brows, 

And  ploughed  rough  furrows  there  be- 
fore their  time, 

For  other  crop  than  such  as  homebred 
Peace 

Sows  broadcast  in  the  willing  soil  of 
Youth. 

Care,  not  of  self,  but  of  the  common- 
weal, 

Had  robbed  their  eyes  of  youth,  and 
left  instead 

A  look  of  patient  power  and  iron  will, 

And  something  fiercer,  too,  that  gave 
broad  hint 

Of  the  plain  weapons  girded  at  their 
sides. 

The  younger  had  an  aspect  of  com- 
mand, — 

Not  such  as  trickles  down,  a  slender 
stream, 

In  the  shrunk  channel  of  agreat  descent. 

But  such  as  lies  entoweredin  heart  and 
head, 

And  an  arm  prompt  to  do  the  'hests  of 
both. 

His  was  a  brow  where  gold  were  out 
of  place, 

And  yet  it  seemed  right  worthy  of  a 
crown 

(Though  he  despised  such),  were  it 
only  made 


46 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Of  iron,  or  some  serviceable  stuff 

That  would  have  matched  his  sinewy 
brown  face. 

The  elder,  although  such  he  hardly 
seemed 

(Care  makes  so  little  of  some  five  short 
years), 

Had  a  clear,  honest  face,  whose  rough- 
hewn  strength 

Was  mildened  by  the  scholar's  wiser 
heart 

To  sober  courage,  such  as  best  befits 

The  unsullied  temper  of  a  well-taught 
mind, 

Yet  so  remained  that  one  could  plainly 
guess 

The  hushed  volcano  smouldering  un- 
derneath. • 

He  spoke  :  the  other,  hearing,  kept  his 
gaze 

Still  fixed,  as  on  some  problem  in  the 
sky. 

"  O  Cromwell,  we  are  fallen  on 

evil  times  ! 
There  was  a  day  when  England  had 

wide  room 
For  honest  men  as  well  as  foolish  kings  ; 
But  now  the  uneasy  stomach  of  the 

time 
Turns  squeamish  at  them  both.   There- 
fore let  us 
Seek  out  that  savage  clime,  where  men 

as  yet 
Are  free  :   there  sleeps  the  vessel  on 

the  tide, 
Her  languid  canvas  drooping  for  the 

wind ; 
Give  us  but  that,  and  what  need  we  to 

fear 
This  Order  of  the  Council  ?   The  free 

waves 
Will  not  say,  No,  to  please  a  wayward 

king, 
Nor  will  the  winds  turn  traitors  at  his 

beck  : 
All  things  are  fitly  cared  for,  and  the 

Lord 
Will  watch  as  kindly  o'er  the  exodus 
Of  us  his  servants  now,  as  in  old  time. 
We  have  no  cloud  or  fire,  and  haply 

we 
May  not  pass  dry-shod  through   the 

ocean-stream  ; 


But,  saved  or  lost,  all  things  are  in  Hii 

hand." 
So  spake  he,  and  meantime  the  other 

stood 
With  wide  gray  eyes  still  reading  the 

blank  air, 
As  if  upon  the  sky's  blue  wall  he  saw 
Some   mystic  sentence,   written   by  a 

hand, 
Such  as  of  old  made  pale  the  Assyrian 

king, 
Girt  with  his  satraps  in   the  blazing 

feast. 

"  Hampden  !    a  moment  since,   my 

purpose  was 
To  fly  with  thee,  — for  I  will  call  it 

flight, 
Nor    flatter    it    with    any    smoother 

name,  — 
But  something  in  me  bids  me  not  to 

go; 
And  I  am  one,  thou  knowest,  who,  un- 
moved 
By  what  the  weak  deem  omens,  yet 

give  heed 
And  reverence  due  to  whatsoe'er  my 

soul 
Whispers  of  warning  to  the  inner  ear. 
Moreover,  as  I  know  that  God  brings 

round 
His  purposes  in  ways  undreamed  by 

us, 
And  makes  the  wicked  but  his  instru- 
ments 
To  hasten  on  their  swift  and  sudden 

fall, 
I  see  the  beauty  of  his  providence 
In  the  King's  order  :  blind,  he  will  not 

let 
His  doom  part  from  him,  but  must  bid 

it  stay 
As  't  were  a  cricket,  whose  enlivening 

chirp 
He   loved   to  hear  beneath   his  very 

hearth. 
Why  should  we  fly?     Nay,  why  not 

rather  stay 
And  rear  again   our  Zion's  crumbled 

walls, 
Not,  as  of  old  the  walls  of  Thebes  were 

built, 
By   minstrel    twanging,   but,   if   need 

should  be, 


A    GLANCE   BEHIND   THE   CURT  A IX 


47 


With  the   more   potent   music  of  our 

swords  ? 
Think'st  thou  that  score  of  men  beyond 

the  sea 
Claim   more    God's  care    than   all   of 

England  here  ? 
No  :  when  he  moves  His  arm,  it  is  to 

aid 
Whole  peoples,  heedless  if  a  few  be 

crushed, 
As  some  are  ever,  when  the  destiny 
Of  man  takes  one  stride  onward  nearer 

home. 
Believe  it,  't  is  the  mass  of  men  He 

loves  ; 
And,  where  there  is  most  sorrow  and 

most  want, 
Where  the  high  heart  of  man  is  trodden 

down 
The  most,  'tis  not  because  He  hides 

his  face 
From  them  in  wrath,  as  purblind  teach- 
ers prate  : 
Not  so  :  there  most  is  He,  for  there  is 

He 
Most  needed.     Men  who  seek  for  Fate 

abroad 
Are  not  so  near  His  heart  as  they  who 

dare 
Frankly  to  face  her  where  she  faces 

them, 
On  their  own  threshold,   where  their 

souls  are  strong 
To  grapple  with  and  throw  her ;  as  I 

once, 
Being  yet  a  boy,   did  cast  this  puny 

king, 
Who  now  has  grown  so  dotard  as  to 

deem 
That  he  can  wrestle  with   an   angry 

realm, 
And  throw  the   brawned   Antaeus  of 

men's  rights. 
No,    Hampden  !    they   have   half-way 

conquered  Fate 
Who  go   halfway  to  meet  her,  —  as 

will  I. 
Freedom  hath  yet  a  work  for  me  to  do  ; 
So  speaks    that    inward   voice   which 

never  yet 
Spake  falsely,  when  it  urged  the  spirit 

on 
To  noble  deeds  for  country  and  man- 
kind. 


And,  for  success,  I  ask  no  more  than 

this,  — 
To    bear    unflinching   witness   to   the 

truth. 
All  true  whole  men  succeed  ;  for  what 

is  worth 
Success's     name,     unless     it     be    the 

thought, 
The  inward  surety,  to  have  carried  out 
A  noble  purpose  to  a  noble  end, 
Although  it  be  the  gallows  or  the  block  ? 
'T  is  only  Falsehood   that   doth   ever 

need 
These  outward  shows  of  gain  to  bolsteJ 

her. 
Be  it  we  prove  the  weaker  with  our 

swords ; 
Truth  only  needs  to  be  for  once  spoke 

out, 
And  there  's  such  music  in  her,  such 

strange  rhythm, 
As  makes  men's  memories  her  joyous 

slaves, 
And  clings  around  the  soul,  as  the  sky 

clings 
Round  the  mute  earth,  forever  beauti- 
ful, 
And,  if  o'erclouded,  only  to  burst  foith 
More  all-embracingly  divine  and  clear  : 
Get  but  the  truth  once  uttered,  and  't  is 

like 
Astar  new-born,  that  drops  into  its  place, 
And  which,  once  circling  in  its  placid 

round, 
Not  all  the  tumult  of  the  earth  can  shake. 

"  What  should  we  do  in  that  small 

colony 
Of  pinched  fanatics,  who  would  rather 

choose 
Freedom   to   clip  an  inch  more  from 

their  hair, 
Than  the  great  chance  of  setting  Eng- 
land free  ? 
Not  there,  amid  the  stormy  wilderness, 
Should  we  learn  wisdom  ;  or  if  learned, 

what  room 
To  put  it  into  act, — else  worse  than 

naught  ? 
We  learn  our  souls  more,  tossing  for  an 

hour 
Upon  this  huge  and  ever-vexed  sea 
Of  human  thought,  where  kingdoms  g» 

to  wreck 


48 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Like    fragile   bubbles    yonder   in   the 

stream, 
Than  in  a  cycle  of  New  England  sloth, 
Broke  only  by  some  petty  Indian  war, 
Or  quarrel  for  a  letter  more  or  less 
In   some   hard   word,   which,  spelt  in 

either  way, 
Not  their  most  learned  clerks  can  un- 
derstand. 
New  times  demand  new  measures  and 

new  men ; 
The  world  advances,   and  in  time  out- 
grows 
The  laws  that  in  our  fathers'  day  were 

best  ; 
And,  doubtless,  after  us,    some  purer 

scheme 
Will  be  shaped  out  by  wiser  men  than 

we, 
Made  wiser  by  the  steady  growth    of 

truth. 
We  cannot  bring  Utopia  by  force  : 
But  better,  almost,  be  at  work  in  sin, 
Than  in  a  brute  inaction  browse  and 

sleep. 
No  man  is  born  into  the  world,  whose 

work 
Is  not  born  with  him  ;  there  is  always 

work, 
And  tools  to  work  withal,  for  those  who 

will  ; 
And  blessed  are  the  horny  hands  of  toil ! 
The  busy  world  shoves  angrily  aside 
The  man  who  stands  with  arms  akimbo 

set, 
Until  occasion  tells  him  what  to  do  ; 
And   he   who  waits   to  have  his  task 

marked  out 
Shall  die   and  leave  his  errand  unful- 
filled. 
Our  time  is  one  that  calls  for  earnest 

deeds : 
Reason    and    Government,     like    two 

broad  seas, 
Yearn  for  each  other  with  outstretched 

arms 
Acrossthisnarrow  isthmus  of  the  throne, 
And  roll  their  white  surf  higher  every 

day. 
One  age  moves   onward,   and  the  next 

builds  up 
Citiesandgorgeous  palaces,  where  stood 
The  rude  log  huts  of  those  who  tamed 

the  wild. 


Rearing  from  out  the  forests  they  had 

felled 
The  goodly  framework  of  a  fairer  state  : 
The  builder's  trowel  and  the  settler's  axe 
Are   seldom   wielded  by  the   selfsame 

hand  ; 
Ours  is  the  harder  task,  yet  not  the  less 
Shall  we  receive  the  blessing  for  our  toil 
From  the  choice  spirits  of  the  aftertime. 
My  soul  is  not  a  palace  of  the  past, 
Where   outworn   creeds,    like   Rome's 

gray  senate,  quake, 
Hearing   afar    the    Vandal's    trumpet 

hoarse, 
That  shakes  old  systems  with  a  thunder- 
fit. 
The  time  is  ripe,   and  rotten-ripe,  for 

change  ; 
Then  let  it  come  :  I  have  no  dread  of 

what 
Is  called  for  by  the  instinct  of  mankind  ; 
Nor  think  I  that  God's  world  will  fall 

apart 
Because  we  tear  a  parchment  more  or 

less. 
Truth  is  eternal,  but  her  effluence, 
With  endless  change    is  fitted  to  the 

hour  ; 
Her  mirror  is  turned  forward  to  reflect 
The  promise  of  the  future,  not  the  past. 
He  who  would  win  the  name  of  truly 

great 
Must  understand  his  own  age  and  the 

next, 
And  make  the  present  ready  to  fulfil 
Its  prophecy,  and  with  the  future  merge 
Gently  and    peacefully,    as  wave  with 

wave 
The  future  works  out  great  men's  des- 
tinies ; 
The  present  is  enough  for  common  souls, 
Who,  never  looking  forward,  are  indeed 
Mere   clay,  wherein  the   footprints   of 

their  age 
Are  petrified  forever  :  better  those 
Who  lead  the  blind  old  giant  by  the  hand 
From  out  the  pathless  desert  where  he 

gropes, 
And  set  him  onward  in  his  darksome 

way. 
I  do  not  fear  to  follow  out  the  truth, 
Albeit  along  the  precipice's  edge. 
Let  us  speak  plain  :  there  is  more  force 

in  names 


A    GLANCE   BEHIND    THE   CURTAIN. 


49 


Thaw  most  men  dream  of;  and  a  lie 
may  keep 

Its  throne  a  whole  age  longer,  if  it  skulk 

Behind  the  shield  Ji  some  fair-seeming 
name. 

Let  us  call  tyrants,  tyrants,  and  main- 
tain, 

That  only  freedom  comes  by  grace  of 
God, 

And  all  that  comes  not  by  his  grace 
must  fall  ; 

For  men  in  earnest  have  no  timetowaste 

In  patching  fig-leaves  for  the  naked 
truth. 

"  I  will  have  one  more  grapple  with 
the  man 

Charles  Stuart :  whom  the  boy  o'er- 
came, 

The  man  stands  not  in  awe  of.  I,  per- 
chance, 

Am  one  raised  up  by  the  Almighty  arm 

To  witness  some  great  truth  to  all  the 
world. 

Souls  destined  to  o'erleap  the  vulgar  lot, 

And  mould  the  world  unto  the  scheme 
of  God, 

Have  a  fore-consciousness  of  their  high 
doom, 

As  men  are  known  to  shiver  at  the  heart 

When  the  cold  shadow  of  some  coming 
ill 

Creeps  slowly  o'er  their  spirits  un- 
awares. 

Hath  Good  less  power  of  prophecy  than 
111? 

How  else  could  men  whom  God  hath 
called  to  sway 

Earth's  rudder,  and  to  steer  the  bark  of 
Truth, 

Beating  against  the  tempest  tow'rd  her 
port, 

Bear  all  the  mean  and  buzzing  griev- 
ances, 

The  petty  martyrdoms,  wherewith  Sin 
strives 

To  weary  out  the  tethered  hope  of  Faith, 

The  sneers,  the  unrecognizing  look  of 
friends, 

Who  worship  the  dead  corpse  of  old 
king  Custom, 

Where  it  doth  lie  in  state  within  the 
Church, 

Striving  to  cover  up  the  mighty  ocean 
4 


With  a  man's  palm,  and  making  even 

the  truth 
Lie  for  them,   holding  up  the  glass  re- 
versed, 
To  make  the  hope  of  man  seem  further 

off? 
My  God  !  when  I   read  o'er  the  bitter 

lives 
Of  men  whose  eager  hearis  were  quite 

too  great 
To  beat  beneath  the  cramped  mode  of 

the  day, 
And  see  them  mocked  at  by  the  world 

they  love, 
Haggling    with    prejudice  for  penny- 
worths 
Of  that   reform  which  their  hard  toil 

will  make 
The  common  birthright  of  the  age  to 

come,  — 
When   I  see  this,  spite  of  my  faith  in 

God, 
I  marvel  how  their  hearts  bear  up  so 

long  ; 
Nor    could    they   but    for    this    same 

prophecy, 
This  inward  feeling  of  the  glorious  end. 

"  Deem   me  not  fond  ;  but  in    my 

warmer  youth, 
Ere  my  heart's  bloom  was  soiled  and 

brushed  away, 
I  had  great  dreams  of  mighty  things  to 

come  ; 
Of  conquest,  whether  by  the  sword  or 

pen 
I  knew  not  ;  but  some  conquest  I  would 

have, 
Or  else  swift  death  :  now  wiser  grown 

in  years, 
I  find  youth's  dreams  are  but  the  flutter- 

ings 
Of  those  strong  winds  whereon  the  soul 

shall  soar 
In  aftertime  to  win  a  starry  throne  ; 
And  so  I  cherish  them,  for  they  were  lots, 
Which  I,  a  boy,  cast  in  the  helm  of  Fate. 
Now  will   I  draw  them,  since  a  man's 

right  hand, 
A  right  hand  guided  by  an  earnest  soul. 
With  a  true  instinct,   takes  the  golden 

prize 
From  out  a  thousand  blanks.     What 

men  call  luck 


5° 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Is  the  prerogative  of  valiant  soujs, 
The  fealty  life  pnys  its  rightful  kings. 
The  helm  is  shaking  now,  and  I  will  stay 
To  pluck  my  lot  forth  ;  it  were  siu  to 

flee  !  " 

So  they  two  turned  together  ;  one  to 

die, 
Fighting   for   freedom   on   the   bloody 

field; 
The  other,  far  more  happy,  to  become 
A  name  earth  wears  forever  next  her 

heart  ; 
One  of  the  few  that  have  a  right  to  rank 
With  the  true  Makers :  for  his  spirit 

wrought 
Order  from  Chaos ;  proved  that  right 

divine 
Dwelt  only  in  the  excellence  of  truth  ; 
And  far  within   old  Darkness'  hostile 

lines 
Advanced    and     pitched    the    shining 

tents  of  Light. 
Nor  shall  the  grateful  Muse  forget  to 

tell, 
That  —  not  the  least  among  his  many 

claims 
To    deathless  honor  —  he   was    Mil- 
ton's friend, 
A  man  not  second  among  those  who 

lived 
To  show  us  that  the  poet's  lyre   de- 
mands 
An   arm   of   tougher    sinew   than   the 

sword. 

1843-  


SONG. 


O  moonlight  deep  and  tender, 

A  year  and  more  agone, 
Your  mist  of  golden  splendor 

Round  my  betrothal  shone  ! 

O  elm-leaves  dark  and  dewy, 

The  very  same  ye  seem, 
The  low  wind  trembles  through  ye, 

Ye  murmur  in  my  dream  ! 

O  river,  dim  with  distance, 

Flow  thus  forever  by, 
A  part  of  my  existence 

Within  your  heart  doth  lie  I 


O  stars,  ye  saw  our  meeting, 
Two  beings  and  one  soul, 

Two  hearts  so  madly  beating 
To  mingle  and  be  whole  ! 

O  happy  night,  deliver 
Her  kisses  back  to  me, 

Or  keep  them  all,  and  give  her 
A  blissful  dream  of  me  1 

1842. 


A  CHIPPEWA  LEGEND.* 

aXyeiva  /tier  not  Kal  Xiyeiv  icrrlv  TaSe 
aAyos  Se  cnyav. 

^Cschylus,  Prom.  Vinct.  197. 

The  old  Chief,  feeling  now  wellnigk 

his  end, 
Called  his  two  eldest  children  to  his 

side, 
And  gave  them,  in  few  words,  his  part- 
ing charge  ! 
"  My  son  and  daughter,  me  ye  see  no 

more  ; 
The  happy  hunting-grounds  await  me, 

green 
With   change  of  spring  and   summer 

through  the  year : 
But,  for  remembrance,  after  I  am  gone, 
Re  kind  to  little  Sheemah  for  my  sake  : 
Weakling  he  is  and  young,  and  knows 

not  yet 
To  set  the  trap,  or  draw  the  seasoned 

bow ; 
Therefore  of  both  your  loves  he  hath 

more  need, 
And  he,  who  needeth  love,  to  love  hath 

right ; 
It  is  not  like  our  furs  and  stores  of  corn, 
Whereto  we  claim  sole  title  by  our  toil, 
But  the  Great  Spirit  plants  it  in  our 

hearts, 
And  waters  it,  and  gives  it  sun,  to  be 
The  common  stock  and  heritage  of  all : 
Therefore  be  kind  to   Sheemah,  that 

yourselves 
May  not  be  left  deserted  in  your  need." 

*  For  the  leading-  incidents  in  this  tale,  I 
am  indebted  to  the  very  valuable  "  Algic 
Researches  "  of  Henry  R.  Schoolcraft.  Esq. 


A    CHIPPEWA    LEGEND. 


5' 


Alone,  beside  a  lake,  their  wigwam 

stood, 
Far  from  the  other  dwellings  of  their 

tribe  ; 
And,  after  many  moons,  the  loneliness 
Wearied  the  elder  brother,  and  he  said, 
"  Why  should  I  dwell  here  all  alone, 

shut  out 
From  the  free,  natural  joys  that  fit  my 

age? 
Lo,  I  am  tall  and  strong,  well  skilled 

to  hunt. 
Patient  of  toil  and  hunger,  and  not  yet 
Have  seen  the  danger  which  I  dared 

not  look 
Full  in  the  face  ;  what  hinders  me  to 

be 
A  mighty  Brave  and  Chief  among  my 

kin?" 
So,  taking  up  his  arrows  and  his  bow, 
As  if  to  hunt,  he  journeyed  swiftly  on, 
Until  he  gained   the  wigwams  of  his 

tribe, 
Where,  choosing  out  a  bride,  he  soon 

forgot, 
In  all  the  fret  and  bustle  of  new  life, 
The  little  Sheemah  and   his  father's 

charge. 

Now    when    the    sister    found    her 

brother  gone, 
And  that,  for  many  days,  he  came  not 

back, 
She  wept  for  Sheemah  more  than  for 

herself ; 
For  Love  bides  longest  in  a  woman's 

heart, 
And  flutters  many  times  before  he  flies, 
And  then  doth  perch  so  nearly,  that  a 

word 
May  lure  him  back,  as  swift  and  glad 

as  light ; 
And  Duty  lingers  even  when  Love  is 

gone, 
Oft  looking  out  in  hope  of  his  return  ; 
And,  after  Duty  hath  been  driven  forth, 
Then  Selfishness  creeps  in  the  last  of 

all, 
Warming  her  lean  hands  at  the  lonely 

hearth, 
And  crouching  o'er  the  embers,  to  shut 

out 
Whatever  paltry  warmth  and  light  are 

left, 


With  avaricious  greed,  from  all  beside. 
So,  for  long  months,  the  sister  hunted 

wide, 
And  cared  for  little  Sheemah  tenderly  ; 
But,  daily  more  and  more,  the  loneli- 
ness 
Grew  wearisome,   and  to  herself  she 

sighed, 
"Am   I  not  fair?   at  least  the  glassy 

pool, 
That  hath  no  cause  to  flatter,  tells  me 

so ; 
But,  O,  how  flat  and  meaningless  the 

tale, 
Unless  it  tremble  on  a  lover's  tongue  ! 
Beauty  hath  no  true  glass,  except  it  be 
Iti  the  sweet  privacy  of  loving  eyes." 
Thus  deemed  she  idly,  and  forgot  the 

lore 
Which  she  had  learned  of  nature  and 

the  woods, 
That  beauty's  chief  reward  is  to  itself, 
And  that  the  eyes  of  Love  reflect  alone 
The  inward  fairness,  which  is  blurred 

and  lost 
Unless  kept  clear  and  white  by  Duty's 

care. 
So  she   went    forth    and    sought    the 

haunts  of  men, 
And,  being  wedded,  in  her  household 

cares, 
Soon,  like  the  elder  brother,  quite  for- 
got 
The  little  Sheemah  and  her  father's 

charge. 

But  Sheemah,  left  alone  within  the 
lodge, 

Waited  and  waited,  with  a  shrinking 
heart, 

Thinking  each  rustle  was  his  sister's 
step, 

Till  hope  grew  less  and  less,  and  then 
went  out, 

And  every  sound  was  changed  from 
hope  to  fear. 

Few  sounds  there  were  :  —  the  drop- 
ping of  a  nut, 

The  squirrel's  chirrup,  and  the  jay's 
harsh  scream, 

Autumn's  sad  remnants  of  blithe  Sum- 
mer's cheer, 

Heard  at  long  intervals,  seemed  but  to 
make 


52 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


The  dreadful  void  of  silence  silenter. 
Soon  what  small  store  his  sister  left  was 

gone, 
And,  through   the  Autumn,   he   made 

shift  to  live 
On  roots  and  berries,  gathered  in  much 

fear 
Of  wolves,    whose    ghastly    howl    he 

heard  ofttimes, 
Hollow  and   hungry,   at   the  dead  of 

night. 
But  Winter   came  at  last,  and,  when 

the  snow, 
Thick-heaped  for  gleaming  leagues  o'er 

hill  and  plain, 
Spread  its  unbroken  silence  over  all, 
Made  bold  by  hunger,  he  was  fain  to 

glean 
(More  sick  at  heart  than  Ruth,  and  all 

alone) 
After  the  harvest  of  the  merciless  wolf, 
Grim    Boaz,    who,    sharp-ribbed    and 

gaunt,  yet  feared 
A  thing  more  wild  and  starving  than 

himself: 
Till,  by  degrees,  the  wolf  and  he  grew 

friends, 
And   shared   together  all    the   winter 

through. 

Late  in  the  Spring,  when  all  the  ice 

was  gone, 
The  elder  brother,  fishing  in  the  lake, 
Upon  whose  edge  his  father's  wigwam 

stood, 
Heard  a  low  moaning  noise  upon  the 

shore  : 
Half  like  a  child  it  seemed,  half  like  a 

wolf, 
And  straightway  there  was  something 

in  his  heart 
That  said,  "  It  is  thy  brother  Sheemah's 

voice." 
So,  paddling  swiftly  to  the  bank,  he 

saw, 
Within  a  little  thicket  close  at  hand, 
A  child  that  seemed  fast  changing  to  a 

wolf, 
From  the  neck  downward,  gray  with 

shaggy  hair. 
That  still  crept  on  and  upward  as  he 

looked. 
The  face  was  turned  away,  but  well  he 

knew 


That  it  was  Sheemah's,  even  his  broth- 
er's face. 

Then  with  his  trembling  hands  he  hio. 
his  eyes, 

And  bowed  his  head,  so  that  he  might 
not  see 

The  first  look  of  his  brother's  eyes, 
and  cried, 

"O  Sheemah!  O  my  brother,  speak 
to  me  ! 

Dost  thou  not  know  me,  that  I  «*m  thy 
brother  ? 

Come  to  me,  little  Sheemah,  thou  shalt 
dwell 

With  me  henceforth,  and  know  no  care 
or  want  !  " 

Sheemah  was  silent  for  «  space,  as  if 

'T  were  hard  to  summon  up  a  human 
voice, 

And,  when  he  spake,  trie  sound  was  of 
a  wolf's : 

"I  know  thee  not,  noi"  art  thou  what 
thou  say'st  ; 

I  have  none  other  Brethren  than  the 
wolves, 

And,  till  thy  heart  De  changed  from 
what  it  is, 

Thou  art  not  worthy  to  be  called  their 
kin." 

Then  groaned  the  other,  with  a  chok- 
ing tongue, 

"Alas  1  my  heart  is  changed  right  bit- 
terly ; 

'T  is  shrunk  and  parched  within  mo 
even  now  !  " 

And,  looking  upward  fearfully,  he  saw 

Only  a  wolf  that  shrank  away  «>nd  ran, 

Ugly  and  fierce,  to  hide  among  the 
woods. 


STANZAS  ON   FREEDOM. 

Men  !  whose  boast  it  is  that  ye 
Come  of  fathers  brave  and  free, 
If  there  breathe  on  earth  a  slave, 
Are  ye  truly  free  and  brave  ? 
If  ye  do  not  feel  the  chain, 
Wlien  it  works  a  brother's  pain, 
Are  ye  not  base  slaves  indeed, 
Slaves  unworthy  to  be  freed  ? 

Women  !  who  shall  one  day  bear 
Sons  to  breathe  New  England  air, 


STANZAS  ON  FREEDOM.  — COLUMBUS. 


S3 


If  y»  near,  without  a  blush, 
Deeds  to  make  the  roused  blood  rush 
Like  red  lava  through  your  veins, 
For  your  sisters  now  in  chains,  — 
Answer  I  are  ye  fit  to  be 
Mothers  of  the  brave  and  free  ? 

Is  true  Freedom  but  to  break 
Fetters  for  our  own  dear  sake, 
And,  with  leathern  hearts,  forget 
That  we  owe  mankind  a  debt? 
No  !  true  freedom  is  to  share 
All  the  chains  our  brothers  wear, 
And,  with  heart  and  hand,  to  be 
Earnest  to  make  others  free  I 

They  are  slaves  who  fear  to  speak 
For  the  fallen  and  the  weak  ; 
They  are  slaves  who  will  not  choose 
Hatred,  scoffing,  and  abuse, 
Rather  than  in  silence  shrink 
F  rom  the  truth  they  needsmust  think; 
They  are  slaves  who  dare  not  be 
In  the  right  with  two  or  three. 


COLUMBUS. 

The  cordage  creeks  and  rattles  in  the 
wind, 

With  freaks  of  sudden  hush  ;  the  reel- 
ing sea 

Now  thumps  like  solid  rock  beneath 
the  stern, 

Now  leaps  with  clumsy  wrath,  strikes 
short,  and,  falling 

Crumbled  to  whispery  foam,  slips  rus- 
tling down 

The  broad  backs  of  the  waves,  which 
jostle  and  crowd 

To  tiing  themselves  upon  that  unknown 
shore, 

Their  used  familiar  since  the  dawn  of 
time, 

Whither  this  foredoomed  life  is  guided 
on 

l'o  sway  on  triumph's  hushed,  aspiring 
poise 

One  glittering  moment,  then  to  break 
fulfilled. 

How  lonely  is  the  sea's  perpetual  swing. 
The  melancholy  wash  of  endless  waves, 


The  sigh  of  some  grim  monster  undes- 

cried, 
Fear-painted  on  the  canvas  of  the  dark, 
Shifting  on  his  uneasy  pillow  of  brine  ! 
Yet  night  brings  more  companions  than 

the  day 
To  this  drear  waste  ;  new  constellations 

burn, 
And   fairer    stars,     with    whose    calm 

height  my  soul 
Finds  nearer  sympathy  than  with  my 

herd 
Of  earthen  souls,  whose  vision's  scanty 

ring  _ 
Makes  me  its  prisoner  to  beat  my  wings 
Against  the  cold  bars  of  their  unbelief, 
Knowing  in   vain  my  own  free  heaven 

beyond. 
O  God  !  this  world,  so  crammed  with 

eager  life, 
That  conies  and  goes  and  wanders  back 

to  silence 
Like   the   idle  wind,  which  yet  man's 

shaping  mind 
Can  make  his  drudge  to  swell  the  long- 
ing sails 
Of  highest  endeavor, — this  mad,  un- 

thrift  world, 
Which,  every  hour,  throws  life  enough 

away 
To  make  her  deserts  kind  and  hospita- 
ble, 
Lets  her  great  destinies  be  waved  aside 
Ky  smooth,  lip-reverent,  formal  infidels, 
Who  weigh  the  God   they  not  believe 

with  gold, 
And  find  no  spot  in  Judas,  save  that 

he, 
Driving  a  duller  bargain  than  he  ought. 
Saddled  his  guild  with  too  cheap  pre- 
cedent. 
O    Faith  !    if  thou   art    strong,    thine 

opposite 
Is  mighty  also,  and  the  dull  fool's  sneer 
Hath  ofttimes  shot  chill  palsy  through 

the  arm 
Just  lifted  to  achieve  its  crowning  deed. 
And  made    the  firm-based  heart,  that 

would  have  quailed 
The  rack  or  fagot,  shudder  like  a  leaf 
Wrinkled  with  frost,  and  loose  upon  its 

stem. 
The  wicked  and  the  weak,  by  some  dark 

law, 


54 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Have  a  strange  power  to  shut  and  rivet 

down 
Their  own  horizon  round  us,  to  un  wing 
Ourheaven-aspiring  visions,  and  to  blur 
With  surly  clouds  the  Future's  gleam- 
ing peaks, 
Far  seen  across  the  brine  of  thankless 

years. 
If  the  chosen  soul  could  never  be  alone 
Indeepmid-silence,  open-dooredtoGod, 
No  greatness  ever  had  been  dreamed 

or  done  ; 
Among  dull   hearts   a   prophet   never 

grew  ; 
The  nurse  of  full-grown  souls  is  solitude. 

The  old  world  is  effete  ;  there  man  with 

man 
Jostles,  and,  in  the  brawl  for  means  to 

live, 
Life  is  trod  under-foot,  —  Life,  the  one 

block 
Of  marble  that 's  vouchsafed  wherefrom 

to  carve 
Our  great  thoughts,  white  and  godlike, 

to  shine  down 
The  future,  Life,  the  irredeemable  block, 
Which  one   o'er-hasty   chisel-dint    oft 

mars, 
Scanting  our  room  to  cut  the  features  out 
Of  our  full  hope,  so  forcing  us  to  crown 
With  a  mean  head  the  perfect  limbs,  or 

leave 
The  god's  face   glowing  o'er  a  satyr's 

trunk. 
Failure's  brief  epitaph. 

Yes,  Europe's  world 
Reels  on  to  judgment;  there  the  com- 
mon need, 
Losing  God's  sacred  use,  to  be  a  bond 
'Twixt  Me  and  Thee,   sets  each   one 

scowlingly 
O'er  his  own  selfish  hoard  at  bay ;  no 

state, 
Knit  strongly  with  eternal  fibres  up 
Of  all  men's  separate  and  united  weals, 
Self-poised  and  sole  as  stars,  yet  one  as 

light, 
Holds  up  a  shape  of  large  Humanity 
To  which  by  natural  instinct  every  man 
Pays  loyalty  exulting,  by  which  all 
Mould  their   own  lives,  and  feel  their 
pulses  filled 


With  the  red,  fiery  blood  of  the  general 

_  life, 
Making  them  mighty  in  peace,  as  now 

in  war 
They  are,  even  in  the  flush  of  victory, 

weak, 
Conquering  that  manhood  which  should 

them  subdue. 
And  what  gift  bring  I  to  this  untried 

world? 
Shall  the  same  tragedy  be  played  anew, 
And  the  same  lurid  curtain  drop  at  last 
On  one  dreaddesolation,  one  fierce  crash 
Of  that  recoil  which  on  its  makers  God 
Lets  Ignorance  and  Sin  and  Hunger 

make, 
Early  or  late  ?    Or  shall  that  common- 
wealth 
Whose  potent  unity  and  concentric  force 
Can   draw  these   scattered  joints  and 

parts  of  men 
Into  a  whole  ideal  man  once  more, 
Which  sucks  not  from  its  limbs  the  life 

away, 
But  sends  its  flood-tide  and  creates  itself 
Over  again  in  every  citizen, 
Be  there  built  up?     For  me,  I  have  no 

choice  ; 
I  might  turn  back  to  other  destinies, 
For  one  sincere  key  opes  all  Fortune's 

doors ; 
But  whoso  answers  not  God's  earliest 

call 
Forfeits  or  dulls  that  faculty  supreme 
Of  lying  open  to  his  genius 
Which  makes  the  wise  heart  certain  oi 

its  ends. 

Here  am  I ;  for  what  end  God  knows, 

not  I  ; 
Westward  still   points  the   inexoiable 

soul : 
Here  am  I,  with  no  friend  but  the  sad 

sea, 
The  beating  heart  of  this  great  enter- 
prise, 
Which,    without  me,   would  stiffen  in 

swift  death  ; 
This  have  I  mused  on,  since  mine  eye 

could  first 
Among  the  stars  distinguish  and  witU 

'joy 
Rest  on   that   God-fed  rharos  of  tnst 

norths 


COLUMBUS. 


55 


On  some  blue  promontory  of  heaven 
lighted 

That  juts  far  out  into  the  upper  sea  ; 

To  this  one  hope  my  heart  hath  clung 
for  years, 

As  would  a  foundling  to  the  talisman 

Hung  round  his  neck  by  hands  he 
knew  not  whose  ; 

A  poor,  vile  thing  and  dross  to  all  beside, 

Yet  he  therein  can  feel  a  virtue  left 

By  the  sad  pressure  of  a  mother's  hand, 

And  unto  him  it  still  is  tremulous 

With  palpitating  haste  and  wet  with 
tears, 

The  key  to  him  of  hope  and  human- 
ness. 

The  coarse  shell  of  life's  pearl,  Expect- 
ancy. 

This  hope  hath  been  to  me  for  love  and 
fame, 

Hath  made  me  wholly  lonely  on  the 
earth, 

Building  me  up  as  in  a  thick-ribbed 
tower, 

Wherewith  enwalled  my  watching  spirit 
burned. 

Conquering  its  little  island  from  the 
Dark, 

Sole  as  a  scholar's  lamp,  and  heard 
men's  steps, 

In  the  far  hurry  of  the  outward  world, 

Pass  dimly  forth  and  back,  sounds  heard 
in  dream 

As  Ganymede  by  the  eagle  was 
snatched  up 

From  the  gross  sod  to  be  Jove's  cup- 
bearer, 

So  was  I  lifted  by  my  great  design  : 

And  who  hath  trod  Olympus,  from  his 
eye 

Fades  not  that  broader  outlook  of  the 
gods  ; 

His  life's  low  valleys  overbrow  earth's 
clouds, 

And  that  Olympian  spectre  of  the  past 

Looms  towering  up  in  sovereign  mem- 
ory, 

Beckoning  his  soul  from  meanerheights 
of  doom. 

Had  but  the  shadow  of  the  Thunder- 
er's bird, 

Flashing  athwart  my  spirit,  made  of 
me 

A.  swift-betraying  vision's  Ganymede, 


Yet  to  have  greatly  dreamed  precludes 
low  ends  ; 

Great  days  have  ever  such  a  morning- 
red, 

On  such  a  base  great  futures  are  built 

11 '?' 
And  aspiration,  though  not  put  in  act. 

Comes  back  to  ask  its  plighted  troth 
again, 

Still  watches  round  its  grave  the  un- 
laid ghost 

Of  a  dead  virtue,  and  makes  other 
hopes, 

Save  that  implacable  one,  seem  thin 
and  bleak 

As  shadows  of  bare  trees  upon  the 
snow, 

Bound  freezing  there  by  the  unpitying 
moon. 

While  other  youths  perplexed  their 
mandolins, 

Praying  that  Thetis  would  her  fingers 
twine 

In  the  loose  glories  of  the  lover's  hair, 

And  wile  another  kiss  to  keep  back 
day, 

I,  stretched  beneath  the  many-centu- 
ried  shade 

Of  some  writhed  oak,  the  wood's  Lao- 
coon, 

Did  of  my  hope  a  dryad  mistress  make, 

Whom  I  would  woo  to  meet  me  privily, 

Or  underneath  the  stars,  or  when  the 
moon 

Flecked  all  the  forest  floor  with  scat- 
tered pearls. 

0  days  whose  memory  tames  to  fawn- 

ing down 
The  surly  fell  of  Ocean's  bristled  neck  ! 

1  know  not  when  this  hope  enthralled 

me  first, 
But  from  my  boyhood  up  I  loved  to 

hear 
The  tall  pine-forests  of  the  Apennine 
Murmur   their   hoary   legends   of   the 

sea, 
Which  hearing,  I  in  vision  clear  beheld 
The  sudden  dark  of  tropic  night  shut 

down 
O'er  the  huge  whisper  of  great  watery 

wastes, 
The  while  a  pair  of  herons  trailingly 


5& 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Flapped  inland,  where   some   league- 
wide  river  hurled 
The     yellow    spoil    of    unconjectured 

realms 
Far    through   a   gulfs   green   silence, 

never  scarred 
By  any  but  the  North-wind's  hurrying 

keels. 
And  not   the  pines  alone  ;    all  sights 

and  sounds 
To  my  world-seeking  heart  paid  fealty, 
And  catered  for  it  as  the  Cretan  bees 
Brought  honey  to  the  baby  Jupiter, 
Who  in  his  soft  hand  crushed  a  violet, 
Godlike  foremusing  the  rough  thunder's 

gripe  ; 
Then  did  I  entertain  the  poet's  song, 
My  great  Idea's  guest,   and,  passing 

o'er 
That  iron  bridge  the  Tuscan  built  to 

hell, 
I    heard    Ulysses    tell    of    mountain- 
chains 
Whose  adamantine  links,  his  manacles, 
The  western  main  shook  growling,  and 

still  gnawed. 
I  brooded  on  the  wise  Athenian's  tale 
Of  happy  Atlantis,  and  heard  Bjorne's 

keel 
Crunch  the  gray  pebbles  of  the  Vin- 

land  shore  : 
For  I  believed  the  poets  ;  it  is  they 
Who   utter  wisdom   from   the   central 

deep, 
And,    listening    to  the   inner  flow   of 

things, 
Speak  to  the  age  out  of  eternity. 

Ah  me  !  old  hermits  sought  for  soli- 
tude 

In  caves  and  desert  places  of  the  earth, 

Where  their  own  heart-beat  was  the 
only  stir 

Of  living  thing  that  comforted  the 
year  ; 

But  the  bald  pillar-top  of  Simeon, 

In  midnight's  blankest  waste,  were 
populous, 

Matched  with  the  isolation  diear  and 
deep 

Of  him  who  pines  among  the  swarm  of 
men, 

At  once  a  new  thought's  king  and  pris- 
oner, 


Feeling  the  truer  life  within  his  life, 

The  fountain  of  his  spirit's  prophecy, 

Sinking   away   and   wasting,    drop   bf 
drop, 

In  the  ungrateful  sands  of  sceptic  ears 

He  in  the  palace-aisles  of  untrod  woodt 

Doth  walk  a  king ;  for  him  the  pent- 
up  cell 

Widens  beyond  the  circles  of  the  stars. 

And  all  the  sceptred  spirits  of  the  pas! 

Come  thronging' in  to  greet  him  as  their 
peer ; 

But   in  .the   market-place's  glare  anrf 
throng 

He  sits  apart,  an  exile,  and  his  brow 

Aches  with  the  mocking  memory  of  itl 
crown. 

But   to   the   spirit   select   there  is  no 
choice  ; 

He  cannot  say,  This  will  I  do,  or  that. 

For  the  cheap  means  putting  Heaven's 
ends  in  pawn, 

And  bartering  his  bleak  rocks,  the  free- 
hold stern 

Of  destiny's   first-born,   for  smoother 
fields 

That  yield  no  crop  of  self-denying  will ; 

A  hand  is  stretched   to  him  from  out 
the  dark, 

Which  grasping  without  question,  he 
is  led 

Where  there  is  work  that  he  must  do 
for  God. 

The  trial  still  is  the  strength's  comple- 
ment, 

And    the   uncertain,   dizzy  path    that 
scales 

The  sheer  heights  of  supremest  pur- 
poses 

Is  steeper  to  the  angel  than  the  child. 

Chances  have  laws  as  fixed  as  planets 
have, 

And  disappointment's  dry  and  bitter 
root, 

Envy's  harsh  berries,  and  the  choking 
pool 

Of   the   world's  scorn,   are  the  right 
mother-milk 

To  the  tough  hearts  that  pioneer  their 
kind, 

And  break  a  pathway  to  those  unknown 
realms 

That  in  the  earth's  broad  shadow  lie 
enthralled ; 


AN  INCIDENT  OF   THE  FIRE  AT  HAMBURG. 


57 


Endurance  is  the  crowning  quality, 

And  patience  all  the  passion  of  great 
hearts  ; 

These  are  their  stay,  and  when  the 
leaden  world 

Sets  its  hard  face  against  their  fateful 
thought, 

And  brute  strength,  like  a  scornful  con- 
queror, 

Clangs  his  huge  mace  down  in  the  other 
scale, 

The  inspired  soul  but  flings  his  pa- 
tience in, 

And  slowly  that  outweighs  the  ponder- 
ous globe,  — 

One  faith  against  a  whole  earth's  un- 
belief, 

One  soul  against  the  flesh  of  all  man- 
kind. 

Thus  ever  seems  it  when  my  soul  can 
hear 

The  voice  that  errs  not ;  then  my  tri- 
umph gleams, 

O'er  the  blank  ocean  beckoning,  and 
all  night 

My  heart  flies  on  before  me  as  I  sail  ; 

Far  on  I  see  my  lifelong  enterprise, 

Which  rose  like  Ganges  'mid  the  freez- 
ing snows 

Of  a  world's  sordidness,  sweep  broad- 
ening down, 

And,  gathering  to  itself  a  thousand 
streams, 

Grow  sacred  ere  it  mingle  with  the  sea  ; 

I  see  the  ungated  wall  of  chaos  old, 

With  blocks  Cyclopean  hewn  of  solid 
night, 

Fade  like  a  wreath  of  unreturning  mist 

Before  the  irreversible  feet  of  light  ;  — 

And  lo,  with  what  clear  omen  in  the 
east 

On  day's  gray  threshold  stands  the 
eager  dawn, 

Like  young  Leander  rosy  from  the  sea 

Glowing  at  Hero's  lattice  ! 

One  day  more 
These  muttering  shoalbrains  leave  the 

helm  to  me  : 
God,  let  me  not  in  their  dull  ooze  be 

stranded  ; 
Let  not  this  one  frail  bark,  to  hollow 

which 


I  have  dug  out  the  pith  and  sinewy 

heart 
Of  my  aspiring  life's  fair  trunk,  be  so 
Cast  up  to  warp  and  blacken   in  the 

sun, 
Just  as  the  opposing  wind  'gins  whistle 

off 
His  cheek  swollen  mates,  and  from  the 

leaning  mast 
Fortune's  full  sail  strains  forward  1 

One  poor  day  !  — 
Remember  whose  and  not  how  short  it 

is! 
It  is  God's  day,  it  is  Columbus's. 
A  lavish  day  !     One  day,  with  life  and 

heart, 
Is  more   than  time  enough  to  find  a 

world. 

1844. 


AN  INCIDENT  OF  THE  FIRE 
AT  HAMBURG. 

The  tower  of  old  Saint  Nicholas  soared 

upward  to  the  skies, 
Like   some    huge    piece    of    Nature's 

make,  the  growth  of  centuries  ; 
You  could  not  deem  its  crowding  spires 

a  work  of  human  art, 
They  seemed  to  struggle  lightward  from 

a  sturdy  living  heart. 

Not  Nature's  self  more  freely  speaks  in 

crystal  or  in  oak, 
Than,  through  the  pious  builder's  hand, 

in  that  gray  pile  she  spoke  ; 
And  as  from  acorn  springs  the  oak,  so, 

freely  and  alone, 
Sprang   from   his   heart  this  hymn  to 

God,  sung  in  obedient  stone. 

It  seemed  a  wondrous  freak  of  chancy 

so  perfect,  yet  so  rough, 
A  whim  of  Nature   crystallized  slowly 

in  granite  tough  ; 
The  thick  spires   yearned  towards  the 

sky  in  quaint  harmonious  lines, 
And  in  broad  sunlight  basked  and  slept, 

like  a  grove  of  blasted  pines. 

Never   did   rock  or  stream  or  tree  lay 
claim  with  better  right 


58 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


To  all    the    adorning;    sympathies    of 

shadow  and  of  light  ; 
And,  in  that  forest  petrified,  as  forester 

there  dwells 
Stout  Herman,  the  old  sacristan,  sole 

lord  of  all  its  bells. 

Surge  leaping  after  surge,  the  fire  roared 
onward  red  as  blood, 

Till  half  of  Hamburg  lay  engulfed  be- 
neath the  eddying  flood  ; 

For  miles  away  the  fiery  spray  poured 
down  its  deadly  rain, 

And  back  and  forth  the  billows  sucked, 
and  paused,  and  burst  again. 

From  square  to  square  with  tiger  leaps 

panted  the  lustful  fire, 
The  air  to  leeward  shuddered  with  the 

gasps  of  its  desire  ; 
And  church  and  palace,  which  even  now 

stood  whelmed  but  to  the  knee, 
Lift  their  black  roofs  like  breakers  lone 

amid  the  whirling  sea. 

Up  in  his  tower  old   Herman   sat  and 

watched  with  quiet  look  ; 
His  soul  had  trusted  God  too  long  to  be 

at  last  forsook  ; 
He   could   not   fear,    for  surely  God  a 

pathway  would  unfold 
Through  this  red  sea  for  faithful  hearts, 

as  once  he  did  of  old. 

But  scarcely  can  he  cross  himself,  or  on 

his  good  saint  call, 
Before  the  sacrilegious  flood  o'erleaped 

the  churchyard  wall  ; 
And,   ere  a  pater  half  was  said,  'mid 

smoke  and  crackling  glare, 
His  island  tower  scarce  juts  its   head 
above  the  wide  despair. 

Upon  the  peril's  desperate  peak  his 
heart  stood  up  sublime  ; 

His  first  thought  was  for  God  above, 
his  next  was  for  his  chime  ; 

"  Sing  now  and  make  your  voices  heard 
in  hymns  of  praise,"  cried  he, 

'"As  did  the  Israelites  of  old,  safe  walk- 
ing through  the  sea  1 

"  Through  this  red  sea  our  God  hath 
made  the  pathway  safe  to  shore  ; 


Our  promised  land  stands  full  in  eight ; 

shout  now  as  ne'er  before  !  " 
And  as  the  tower  came  crushing  down, 

the  bells,  in  clear  accord, 
Pealed   forth   the   grand  old    German 

hymn,  —  "All   good  souls,   prais» 

the  Lord  !  " 


THE    SOWER. 

I  saw  a  Sower  walking  slow 
Across  the  earth,  from  east  to  west ; 
His  hair  was  white  as  mountain  snow, 
His  head  drooped  forward  on  his  breast. 

With  shrivelled  hands  he  flung  his  seed, 
Nor  ever  turned  to  look  behind ; 
Of  sight  or  sound  he  took  no  heed  ; 
It  seemed  he  was  both  deaf  and  blind. 

His  dim  face  showed  no  soul  beneath, 
Yet  in  my  heart  I  felt  a  stir, 
As  if  I  looked  upon  the  sheath 
That  once  had  clasped  Excalibur. 

I  heard,  as  still  the  seed  he  cast, 
How,  crooning  to  himself,  he  sung, — 
"  I  sow  again  the  holy  Past, 
The  happy  days  when  I  was  young. 

"Then  all  was  wheat  without  a  tare, 
Then  all  was  righteous,  fair,  and  true; 
And  I  am  he  whose  thoughtful  care 
Shall  plant  the  Old  World  in  the  New. 

"  The  fruitful  germs  I  scatter  free, 
With  busy  hand,  while  all  men  sleep ; 
In  Europe  now,  from  sea  to  sea, 
The  nations  bless  me  as  they  reap." 

Then  I  looked  back  along  his  path, 
And  heard  the  clash  of  steel  on  steel, 
Where  man  faced  man,  in  deadly  wrath. 
While  clanged  the  tocsin'shurrying  peal. 

The  sky  with  burning  towns  flared  red, 
Nearer  the  noise  of  fighting  rolled. 
And  brothers'  blood,  by  brothers  shed, 
Crept,  curdling,  over  pavements  cold. 

Then  marked  I  how  each  germ  of  truth 
Which  through  the  dotard's  fingers  ran 


HUNGER  AND  COLD. 


59 


Was  mated  with  a  dragon's  tooth 
Whence  there  sprang  up  an  armed  man. 

I  shouted,  but  he  could  not  hear; 
Made  signs,  but  these  he  could  not  see  ; 
And  still,  without  a  doubt  or  fear, 
Broadcast  he  scattered  anarchy. 

Long  to  my  straining  ears  the  blast 
Brought    faintly   back   the    words    he 

sung  :  — 
"  I  sow  again  the  holy  Past, 
The  happy  days  when  I  was  young." 


HUNGER  AND  COLD. 

Sisters  two,  all  praise  to  you, 
With  your  faces  pinched  and  blue  ; 
To  the  poor  man  you  've  been  true 

From  of  old  : 
You  can  speak  the  keenest  word, 
You  are  sure  of  being  heard, 
From  the  point  you  're  never  stirred, 

Hunger  and  Cold  ! 

Let  sleek  statesmen  temporize  ; 
Palsied  are  their  shifts  and  lies 
When  they  meet  your  bloodshot  eyes, 

Grim  and  bold  ; 
Policy  you  set  at  naught. 
In  their  traps  you  '11  not  be  caught, 
You  're  too  honest  to  be  bought. 

Hunger  and  Cold  ! 

Bolt  and  bar  the  palace  door  ; 
While  the  mass  of  men  are  poor, 
Naked  truth  grows  more  and  more 

Uncontrolled ; 
You  had  never  yet,  I  guess, 
Any  praise  for  bashfulness, 
You  can  visit  sans  court-dress, 

Hunger  and  Cold  ! 

While  the  music  fell  and  rose, 
And  the  dance  reeled  to  its  close, 
Where  her  round  of  costly  woes 

Fashion  strolled, 
I  beheld  with  shuddering  fear 
Wolves'  eyes  through  the  windows  peer ; 
Little  dream  they  you  are  near, 

Hunger  and  Cold  1 


When  the  toiler's  heart  you  clutch, 
Conscience  is  not  valued  much, 
He  recks  not  a  bloody  smutch 

On  his  gold : 
Everything  to  you  defers, 
You  are  potent  reasoners, 
At  your  whisper  Treason  stirs, 

Hunger  and  Cold  I 

Rude  comparisons  you  draw, 
Words  refuse  to  sate  your  maw, 
Your  gaunt  limbs  the  cobweb  law 

Cannot  hold : 
You  're  not  clogged  with  foolish  pride, 
But  can  seize  a  right  denied  : 
Somehow  God  is  on  your  side, 

Hunger  and  Cold  1 

You  respect  no  hoary  wrong 
More  for  having  triumphed  long  ; 
Its  past  victims,  haggard  throng, 

From  the  mould 
You  unbury  :  swords  and  spears 
Weaker  are  than  poor  men's  tears, 
Weaker  than  your  silent  years, 

Hunger  and  Cold ! 

Let  them  guard  both  hall  and  bower ; 
Through  the  window  you  will  glower, 
Patient  till  your  reckoning  hour 

Shall  be  tolled : 
Cheeks  are  pale,  but  hands  are  red, 
Guiltless  blood  may  chance  be  shed, 
But  ye  must  and  will  be  fed, 

Hunger  and  Cold ! 

God  has  plans  man  must  not  spoil, 
Some  were  made  to  starve  and  toil, 
Some  to  share  the  wine  and  oil, 

We  are  told  : 
Devil's  theories  are  these, 
Stifling  hope  and  love  and  peace, 
Framed  your  hideous  lusts  to  please, 

Hunger  and  Cold ! 

Scatter  ashes  on  thy  head, 
Tears  of  burning  sorrow  shed, 
Earth  !  and  be  by  Pity  led 

To  Love's  fold  ; 
Ere  they  block  the  very  door 
With  lean  corpses  of  the  poor, 
And  will  hush  for  naught  but  gore,  — 
Hunger  and  Cold  I 
1844. 


6o 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


THE    LANDLORD. 

What  boot  your  houses  and  your  lands  ? 

In  spite   of   close-drawn   deed    and 
fence, 
Like  water,  'twixt  your  cheated  hands, 
They  slip  into  the  graveyard's  sands 

And  mock  your  ownership's  pretence. 

How  shall  you  speak  to  urge  your  right, 
Choked  with  that  soil  for  which  you 
lust? 
The  bit  of  clay,  for  whose  delight 
You  grasp,  is  mortgaged,  too ;   Death 
might 
Foreclose  this  very  day  in  dust. 

Fence  as  you  please,   this   plain   poor 
man, 

Whose  only  fields  are  in  his  wit, 
Who  shapes  the  world,  as  best  he  can, 
According  to  God's  higher  plan, 

Owns  you,  and  fences  as  is  fit. 

Though  yours  the  rents,  his  incomes 
wax 

By  right  of  eminent  domain  ; 
From  factory  tall  to  woodman's  axe, 
All  things  on  earth  must  pay  their  tax, 

To  feed  his  hungry  heart  and  brain. 

He  takes  you  from  your  easy-chair. 

And  what  he  plans  that  you  must  do  ; 
You  sleep  in  down,  eat  dainty  fare,  — 
He  mounts  his  crazy  garret-stair 
And  starves,  the  landlord  over  you. 

Feeding  the  clods  your  idlesse  drains, 

You  make  more  green  six  feet  of  soil  ; 
His  fruitful  word,  like  suns  and  rains, 
Partakes  the  seasons'  bounteous  pains, 
And  toils  to  lighten  human  toil. 

Your  lands,  with  force  or  cunning  got, 
Shrink  to  the  measure  of  the  grave  ; 
But  Death  himself  abridges  not 
The  tenures  of  almighty  thought, 
The  titles  of  the  wise  and  brave. 


TO   A   PINE-TREE. 

Far  up  on  Katahdin  thou  towerest, 
Purple-blue    with  the  distance  and 
vast ; 


Like  a  cloud   o'er  the   lowlands  thou 
lowerest, 
That  hangs  poised  on  a  lull  in   the 
blast. 
To  its  fall  leaning  awful. 

In  the  storm,  like  a  prophet  o'ermad- 
dened, 
Thou  singest  and  tossest  thy  branch- 
es ; 
Thy  heart  with  the  terror  is  gladdened, 
Thou  forebodest  the  dread  avalanch- 
es, 
When   whole   mountains  swoop 
valeward. 

In  the  calm  thou  o'erstretchest  the  val- 
leys 
With  thine  arms,  as  if  blessings  im- 
ploring. 
Like  an   old   king  led  forth  from  his 
palace, 
When  his  people  to  battle  are  pour- 
ing 
From  the  city  beneath  him. 

To  the  slumberer  asleep  'neath   thy 
glooming 
Thou  dost   sing  of  wild   billows  in 
motion, 
Till  he  longs  to  be  swung  'mid  their 
booming 
In  the  tents  of  the  Arabs  of  ocean, 
Whose    finned    isles    are    their 
cattle. 

For  the  gale  snatches  thee  for  his  lyre, 
With   mad    hand    crashing    melody 
frantic, 
While  he  pours  forth  his  mighty   de- 
sire 
To  leap  down  on  the  eager  Atlantic, 
Whose  arms  stretch  to  his  play- 
mate. 

The  wild  storm  makes  his  lair  in  thy 
branches, 
Preying  thence  on  the  continent  un- 
der ; 
Like  a  lion,   crouched  close    on    his 
haunches, 
There   awaiteth   his  leap  the  fierce 
thunder, 
Growling  low  with  impatience. 


SI  DESCENDERO  IN  INFERNUM,   ADES. 


61 


Spite  of  winter,  thou  keep'st  thy  green 

glory, 

Lusty  lather  of  Titans  past  number  ! 

The  snow-flakes  alone  make  thee  hoary, 

Nestling  close  to    thy  branches  in 

slumber, 

And  thee  mantling  with  silence. 

Thou   alone   know'st   the  splendor  of 
winter, 
'Mid  thy  snow-silvered,  hushed  pre- 
cipices, 
Hearing  crags  of  green  ice  groan  and 
splinter, 
And  then   plunge  down  the   muffled 
abysses 
In  the  quiet  of  midnight. 

1  Tiou  alone  know'st  the  glory  of  sum- 
mer. 
Gazing  down  on  thy  broad  seas  of 
forest, 
l  in  thy  subjects  that  send  a  proud  mur- 
mur 
Up  to  thee,   to  their  sachem,   who 
towerest 
From  thy  bleak  throne  to  heaven. 


SI    DESCENDERO    IN    INFER- 
NUM, ADES. 

O,  wandering  dim  on  the  extremest 
edge 
Of  God's  bright  providence,  whose 
spirits  sigh 
Drearily  in  you,  like  the  winter  sedge 
That  shivers  o'er  the  dead  pool  stiff 

and  dry, 
A  thin,  sad  voice,  when  the  bold  wind 
roars  by 
From  the  clear  North  of  Duty,  — 
Still  by  cracked  arch  and  broken  shaft 

I  trace 
That   here  was  once  a  shrine  and  holy 
place 
Of  the  supernal  Beauty,  — 
A  child's  play-altar  reared  of  stones 

and  moss, 
With  wilted  flowers  for  offering  laid 
across, 
Mute  recognition  of  the  all-ruling  Grace. 


How  far  are  ye  from  the  innocent,  from 
those 
Whose   hearts  are   as   a   little    lane 
serene, 
Smooth-heaped  from  wall  to  wall  with 
unbroke  snows, 
Or  in  the  summer  blithe  with   lamb- 
cropped  green, 
Save  the  one  track,   where   naught 
more  rude  is  seen 
Than  the  plump  wain  at  even 
Bringing  home  four  months'  sunshins 

bound  in  sheaves  !  — 
How  far  are  ye  from  those  !  yet  who 
believes 
That  ye  can  shut  out  heaven  ? 
Your  souls  partake  its  influence,  not 

in  vain 
Norall  unconscious, as  that  silent  lane 
Its  drift  of  noiseless  apple-blooms  re- 
ceives. 

Looking  within  myself.  I  note  how  thin 
A  plank  of  station,   chance,   or  pros- 
perous fate, 
Doth    fence    me   from    the    clutching 
waves  of  sin  ;  — 
In  my  own  heart  I  find  the  worst 

man's  mate, 
And  see  not  dimly  the  smooth-hinged 
gate 
That  opes  to  those  abysses 
Where  ye  grope  darkly,  —  ye  who  never 

knew 
On  your  young  hearts  love's  consecrat- 
ing dew, 
Or  felt  a  mother's  kisses, 
Or  home's  restraining  tendrils  round 

you  curled ; 
Ah,  side  by  side  with  heart's-ease  in 
this  world 
The  fatal  nightshade  grows  and  bitter 
rue  ! 

One  band  ye  cannot  break,  —  the  force 
that  clips 
And  grasps  your  circles  to  the  central 
light  ; 
Yours  is  the  prodigal  comet's  long  el- 
lipse, 
Self-exiled  to  the  farthest  verge  of 

night ; 
Yet   strives   with    you   no  less  thai 
inward  might 
No  sin  hath  e'er  imbruted 


62 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


The  god  in  you  the  creed-dimmed  eye 

eludes  ; 
The  Law  brooks  not  to  have  its  solitudes 
By  bigot  feet  polluted  ;  — 
Yet  they  who  watch  your  God-com- 
pelled return 
May  see  your  happy  perihelion  burn 
Where   the   calm    sun    his    unfledged 
planets  broods. 


TO   THE   PAST. 

Wondrous  and  awful  are   thy  silent 
halls, 
O  kingdom  of  the  past  ! 
There  lie  the  bygone  ages  in  their  palls, 
Guarded  by  shadows  vast,  — 
There  all  is  hushed  and  breathless, 
Save  when  some  image  of  old  error  falls 
Earth  worshipped  once  as  deathless. 

There  sits  drear  Egypt,  'mid  beleaguer- 
ing sands, 
Half  woman  and  half  beast, 
The  burnt-out  torch  within  her  moul- 
dering hands 
That  once  lit  all  the  East ; 
A  dotard  bleared  and  hoary, 
There  Asser  crouches  o'er  the  black- 
ened brands 
Of  Asia's  long-quenched  glory. 

Still  as  a  city  buried  'neath  the  sea 
Thy  courts  and  temples  stand  ; 
Idle  as  forms  on  wind-waved  tapestry 
Of  saints  and  heroes  grand, 
Thy  phantasms  grope  and  shiver, 
Or  watch  the  loose  shores  crumbling 
silently 
Into  Time's  gnawing  river. 

Titanic  shapes  with  facesblank  and  dun, 

Of  their  old  godhead  lorn, 
Gaze  on  the  embers  of  the  sunken  sun, 
Which  they  misdeem  for  morn  ; 
And  yet  the  eternal  sorrow 
In  their  unmonarched  eyes  says  day  is 
done 
Without  the  hope  of  morrow. 

O  realm  of  silence  and  of  swart  eclipse, 
The  shapes  that  haunt  thy  gloom 


Make  signs  to  us  and  move  thy  wrth- 
ered  lips 
Across  the  gulf  of  doom ; 
Yet  all  their  sound  and  motion 
Bring  no  more  freight  to  us  than  wraiths 
of  ships 
On  the  mirage's  ocean. 

And  if  sometimes  a  moaning  wandereth 

From  out  thy  desolate  halls, 
If  some  grim  shadow  of  thy  living  death 
Across  thy  sunshine  falls 
And  scares  the  world  to  error, 
The  eternal  life  sends  forth  melodious 
breath 
To  chase  the  misty  terror. 

Thy  mighty  clamors,  wars,  and  world- 
noised  deeds 
Are  silent  now  in  dust, 
Gone  like  a  tremble  of  the  huddlii.g 
reeds 
Beneath  some  sudden  gust  ; 
Thy  forms  and  creeds  have  vanished, 
Tossed   out    to  wither  like   unsightly 
weeds 
From  the  world's  garden  banished. 

Whatever  of  true  life  there  was  in  thee 

Leaps  in  our  age's  veins  ; 
Wield  still  thy  bent  and  wrinkled  em- 
pery, 
And  shake  thine  idle  chains;  — 
To  thee  thy  dross  is  clinging, 
For  us  thy  martyrs  die,  thy  prophets  seev 
Thy  poets  still  are  singing. 

Here,  'mid  the  bleak  waves  of  our  strife 
and  care, 
Float  the  green  Fortunate  Isles 
Where  all  thy  hero-spirits   dwell,  and 
share 
Our  martyrdoms  and  toils  ; 
The  present  moves  attended 
With  all  of  brave  and  excellent  and  fait 
That  made  the  old  time  splendid. 


TO    THE    FUTURE. 

O  Land  of  Promise  !  from  what  PU- 
gah's  height 
Can  I  behold  thy  stretch  of  peaceful 
bowers. 


TO   THE  FUTURE. 


63 


Thy  golden  harvests  flowing  out  of  sight, 
Thy  nestled  homes  and  sun-illumined 

towers  ? 
Gazing  upon  the  sunset's  high-heaped 
gold. 
Its  crags  of  opal  and  of  chrysolite, 
Its  deeps  on  deeps  of  glory,  that  un- 
fold 
Still  brightening  abysses, 
And  blazing  precipices. 
Whence  but  a  scanty  leap  it  seems  to 
heaven, 
Sometimes  a  glimpse  is  given 
Of  thy  more  gorgeous  realm,  thy  more 
unstinted  blisses. 

O  Land  of  Quiet  !  to  thy  shore  the  surf 
Of  the  perturbed   Present  rolls  and 
sleeps  ; 
Our  storms  breathe  soft  as  June  upon 
thy  turf 
And  lure  out  blossoms  ;  to  thy  bosom 
leaps. 
As  to  a  mother's,  theo'erwearied  heart, 
Hearing  far   off  and    dim   the   toiling 
mart, 
The  hurrying  feet,  the  curses  without 
number, 
And,  circled  with  the  glow  Elysian 
Of  thine  exulting  vision, 
Out  of  its  very  cares  woos  charms  for 
peace  and  slumber. 

To  thee  the  earth  lifts  up  her  fettered 
hands 
And  cries  for  vengeance  ;  with  a  pity- 
ing smile 
Thou  blessest  her,  and  she  forgets  her 
bands, 
And  her  old  woe-worn  face  a  little 
while 
Grows  young  and  noble  ;  unto  thee  the 
Oppressor 
Looks,  and  is  dumb  with  awe  ; 
The  eternal  law. 
Which  makes  the  crime  its  own  blind- 
fold rechesser, 
Shadows  his  heart  with  perilous  fore- 
boding, 
And    he    can    see  the    grim-eyed 

Doom 
From  out  the  trembling  gloom 
Its  silent- footed  steeds  towards  his  pal- 
ace goading. 


What  promises  hast  thou  for  Poets' 
eyes, 
Aweary  of  the  turmoil  and  the  wrong  ! 
To  all  their  hopes  what  overjoyed  re- 
plies ! 
What  undreamed  ecstasies  for  bliss- 
ful song  ! 
Thy  happy  plains  no  war-trump's  brawl- 
ing clangor 
Disturbs,  and  fools  the  poor  to  hate 
the  poor ; 
The  humble  glares  not  on  the  high  with 
anger ; 
Love  leaves  no  grudge  at  less,   no 
greed  for  more ; 
In  vain  strives  Self  the  godlike  sense  to 
smother  ; 
From  the  soul's  deeps 
It  throbs  and  leaps  ; 
The  noble  'neath  foul  rags  beholds  his 
long-lost  brother. 

To  thee  the  Martyr  looketh,  and  his 
fires 

Unlock  their  fangs  and  leave  his  spirit 
free  ; 
To  thee  the  Poet  'mid  his  toil  aspires, 
And  grief  and  hunger  climb  about  his 
knee, 
Welcome  as  children  ;  thou  upholdest 
The   lone    Inventor  by   his    demon 
haunted  ; 
The  Prophet  cries  to  thee  when  hearts 
are  coldest, 
And    gazing   o'er  the   midnight's 

bleak  abyss, 
Sees  the  drowsed  soul  awaken  at 
thy  kiss, 
And  stretch  its  happy  arms  and  leap  up 
disenchanted. 

Thou  bringest  vengeance,  but  so  lov- 
ing-kindly 
The  guilty  thinks  it  pity ;  taught  by 
thee, 
Fierce  tyrants  drop  the  scourges  where- 
with blindly 
Their  own  souls  they  were  scarring; 
conquerors  see 
With  horror  in  their  hands  the  accursed 
spear 
That  tore  the  meek  One's  side  oh 
Calvarv, 


64 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


And  from   their  trophies  shrink  with 
ghastly  fear; 
Thou,  too,  art  the  Forgiver, 
The  beauty  of  man's  soul  to  man  re- 
vealing ; 
The  arrows  from  thy  quiver 
Pierce  Error's  guilty  heart,   but  only 
pierce  for  healing. 

O,     whither,     whither,     glory-winged 
dreams, 
From  out  Life's  sweat  and  turmoil 
would  ye  bear  me  ? 
Shut,  gates  of  Fancy,  on  your  golden 
gleams,  — 
This  agony  of  hopeless  contrast  spare 
me  ! 
Fade,  cheating  glow,  and  leave  me  to 
my  night ! 
He  is  a  coward,  who  would  borrow 
A  charm  against  the  present  sorrow 
From  the  vague  Future's  promise  of 
delight  : 
As  life's  alarums  nearer  roll, 
The  ancestral  buckler  calls, 
Self-clanging  from  the  walls 
In  the  high  temple  of  the  soul  ; 
Where  are  most  sorrows,  there  the  po- 
et's sphere  is, 
To  feed  the  soul  with  patience, 
To  heal  its  desolations 
With  words  of  unshorn  truth,  with  love 
that  never  wearies. 


HEBE. 


I  saw  the  twinkle  of  white  feet, 
I  saw  the  flash  of  robes  descending; 

Before  her  ran  an  influence  fleet, 
That  bowed  my  heart  like  barley  bend- 
ing. 

As,  in  bare  fields,  the  searching  bees 
Pilot  to  blooms  beyond  our  finding, 

It  led  me  on,  by  sweet  degrees 
Joy's  simple  honev-cells  unbinding. 

Those  Graces  v»ere  that  seemed  grim 
Fates ; 
With  nearer  love  the  sky  leaned  o'er  me; 

The  long-sought  Secret's  golden  gates 
On  musical  hinges  swung  before  me. 


I  saw  the  brimmed  bowl  in  her  grasp 
Thrilling  with  godhood ;   like  a  lover 

I  sprang  the  proffered  life  to  clasp  ;  — 
The  beaker  fell ;  the  luck  was  over. 

The  Earth  has  drunk  the  vintage  up  ; 
What  boots  it  patch  the  goblet's  splin- 
ters? 
Can  Summer  fill  the  icy  cup, 
Whose  treacherous  crystal  is  but  Win- 
ter's? 

O  spendthrift,  haste  !  await  the  Gods ; 
Their  nectar  crowns  the  lips   of  Pa- 
tience ; 

Haste  scatters  on  unthankful  sods 
The  immortal  gift  in  vain  libations. 

Coy  Hebe  flies  from  those  that  woo, 
And  shuns  the  hands  would  seize  upon 
her  ; 

Follow  thy  life,  and  she  will  sue 
To  pour  for  thee  the  cup  of  honor. 


THE   SEARCH. 

I  went  to  seek  for  Christ, 
And  Nature  seemed  so  fair 
That  first  the  woods  and  fields  my  youtfc 
enticed, 
And  I  was  sure  to  find  him  there : 
The  temple  I  forsook, 
And  to  the  solitude 
Allegiance  paid  ;  but  Winter  came  and 
shook 
The   crown  and   purple   from   my 
wood ; 
His  snows,    like    desert    sands,    with 
scornful  drift, 
Besieged  the  columned  aisle  and  pal- 
ace-gate ; 
My  Thebes,  cut  deep  with  many  a  sol- 
emn rift, 
But  epitaphed  her  own  sepulchred 
state  : 
Then  I  remembered  whom  I  went  to 

seek, 
And  blessed  blunt  Winter  for  his  coun- 
sel bleak. 

Back  to  the  world  I  turned, 
For  Christ,  I  said,  is  King ; 


THE  PRESENT  CRISIS. 


6s 


So  the  cramped  alley  and   the  hut   I 
spurned, 
As  far  beneath  his  sojourning  : 
'Mid  power  and  wealth  I  sought, 
But  found  no  trace  of  him, 
And    all    the    costly   offerings   I    had 
brought 
With  sudden  rust  and  mould  grew 
dim : 
I  found  his  tomb,   indeed,  where,  by 
their  laws, 
All  must  on  stated  days  themselves 
imprison, 
Mocking   with   bread   a    dead   creed's 
grinning  jaws, 
Witless  how  long  the  life  had  thence 
arisen  ; 
Due  sacrifice  to  this  they  set  apart, 
Prizing  it  more  than  Christ's  own  living 
heart. 

So  from  my  feet  the  dust 
Of  the  proud  World  I  shook  ; 
Then  came  dear  Love  and  shared  with 
me  his  crust, 
And  half  my  sorrow's  burden  took. 
After  the  World's  soft  bed, 
Its  rich  and  dainty  fare, 
Like  down  seemed  Love's  coarse  pil- 
low to  my  head, 
His  cheap  food  seemed  as  manna 
rare ; 
Fresh-trodden  prints  of  bare  and  bleed- 
ing feet, 
Turned  to  the  heedless  city  whence  I 
came, 
Hard  by  I  saw,  and  springs  of  worship 
sweet 
Gushed  from  my  cleft  heart  smitten 
by  the  same  ; 
Love  looked  me  in  the  face  and  spake 

no  words. 
But  straight   I  knew  those  footprints 
were  the  Lord's. 

I  followed  where  they  led 
And  in  a  hovel  rude, 
With  naught  to  fence  the  weather  from 
his  head, 
The  King  I  sought  for  meekly  stood ; 
A  naked,  hungry  child 
Clung  round  his  gracious  knee, 
And  a  poor  hunted  slave  looked  up  and 
smiled 

5 


To'bless  the  smile  that  set  him  free  ; 
New  miracles  I  saw  his  presence  do, — 
No  more  I  knew  the  hovel  bare  and 
poor, 
The   gathered   chips   into   a  woodpile 
grew, 
The  broken  morsel  swelled  to  goodly 
store ; 
I  knelt  and  wept :   my  Christ  no  more 

I  seek, 
His  throne  is  with  the  outcast  and  the 
weak. 


THE   PRESENT  CRISIS. 

When  a  deed  is  done  for   Freedom, 

through  the  broad  earth's  aching 

breast 
Runs  a  thrill  of  joy  prophetic,  trembling 

on  from  east  to  west, 
And  the  slave,  where'er  he  cowers,  feels 

the  soul  within  him  climb 
To  the  awful  verge  of  manhood,  as  the 

energy  sublime 
Of  a  century  bursts  full  blossomed  on 

the  thorny  stem  of  Time. 

Through  the  walls  of  hut  and  palace 
shoots  the  instantaneous  throe, 

When  the  travail  of  the  Ages  wrings 
earth's  systems  to  and  fro  ; 

At  the  birth  of  each  new  Era,  with  a 
recognizing  start, 

Nation  wildly  looks  at  nation,  standing 
with  mute  lips  apart, 

And  glad  Truth's  yet  mightier  man- 
child  leaps  beneath  the  Future's 
heart. 

So  the  Evil's  triumph  sendeth,  with  a 

terror  and  a  chill, 
Under  continent  to  continent,  the  sense 

of  coming  ill, 
And  the  slave,  where'er  he  cowers,  feels 

his  sympathies  with  God 
In  hot  tear-drops  ebbing  earthward,  to 

be  drunk  up  by  the  sod, 
Till  a  corpse  crawls   round   unburied, 

delving  in  the  nobler  clod. 

For  mankind  are  one  in  spirit,  and  an 

instinct  bears  along, 
Round   the   earth's  electric  circle,  the 

swift  flash  of  right  or  wrong  ; 


66 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Whether  conscious  or  unconscious,  yet 

Humanity's  vast  frame 
Through  its  ocean-sundered  fibres  feels 

the  gush  of  joy  or  shame  ;  — 
In  the  gain  or  loss  of  one  race  all  the 

rest  have  equal  claim. 

Once  to  every  man  and  nation  comes 

the  moment  to  decide, 
In  the  strife  of  Truth  with  Falsehood, 

for  the  good  or  evil  side  ; 
Some  great  cause,  God's  new  Messiah, 

offering  each  the  bloom  or  blight, 
Parts  the  goats  upon  the  left  hand,  and 

the  sheep  upon  the  right, 
And  the  choice  goes  by  forever  'twixt 

that  darkness  and  that  light. 

Hast  thou  chosen,  O  my  people,  on 
whose  party  thou  shalt  stand, 

Ere  the  Doom  from  its  worn  sandals 
shakes  the  dust  against  our  land  ? 

Though  the  cause  of  Evil  prosper,  yet 
't  is  Truth  alone  is  strong, 

And,  albeit  she  wander  outcast  now,  I 
see  around  her  throng 

Troops  of  beautiful,  tall  angels,  to  en- 
shield  her  from  all  wrong. 

Backward  look  across  the  ages  and  the 

beacon-moments  see, 
That,  like  peaks  of  some  sunk  conti- 

tinent,  jut  through  Oblivion's  sea; 
Not  an  ear  in  court  or  market  for  the 

low  foreboding  cry 
Of  those  Crises,  God's  stern  winnowers, 

from  whose  feet  earth's  chaff  must 

fly: 

Never  shows  the  choice  momentous  till 
the  judgment  hath  passed  by. 

Careless  seems  the  great  Avenger  ;  his- 
tory's pages  but  record 

One  death-grapple  in  the  darkness 
'twixt  old  systems  and  the  Word  ; 

Truth  forever  on  the  scaffold,  Wrong 
forever  on  the  throne,  — 

Yet  that  scaffold  sways  the  future,  and, 
behind  the  dim  unknown, 

Standeth  God  within  the  shadow,  keep- 
ing watch  above  his  own. 

We  see  dimly  in  the  Present  what  is 

small  and  what  is  great, 
Slow  of  faith,  how  weak  an  arm  may 

turn  the  iron  helm  of  fate, 


But  the  soul  is  still  oracular  ;  amid  the 
market's  din, 

List  the  ominous  stern  whisper  from 
the  Delphic  cave  within,  — 

"  They  enslave  their  children's  chil- 
dren who  make  compromise  with 
sin." 

Slavery,  the  earth-born  Cyclops,  fellest 
of  the  giant  brood, 

Sons  of  brutish  Force  and  Darkness, 
who  have  drenched  the  earth  with 
blood, 

Famished  in  his  self-made  desert,  blind- 
ed by  our  purer  day, 

Gropes  in  yet  unblasted  regions  for  his 
miserable  prey  ;  — 

Shall  we  guide  his  gory  fingers  where 
our  helpless  children  play? 

Then  to  side  with  Truth  is  noble  when 

we  share  her  wretched  crust, 
Ere  her  cause  bring  fame  and  profit, 

and  't  is  prosperous  to  be  just  ; 
Then  it  is  the  brave  man  chooses,  while 

the  coward  stands  aside, 
Doubting  in  his   abject  spirit,  till  his 

Lord  is  crucified, 
And  the  multitude  make  virtue  of  the 

faith  they  had  denied. 

Count  me  o'er  earth's  chosen  heroes,  — 

they  were  souls  that  stood  alone. 
While  the  men  they  agonized  for  hurled 

the  contumelious  stone, 
Stood  serene,  and  down  the  future  saw 

the  golden  beam  incline 
To  the  side  of  perfect  justice,  mastered 

by  their  faith  divine, 
By  one  man's  plain  truth  to  manhood 

and  to  God's  supreme  design. 

By  the  light  of  burning  heretics  Christ's 
bleeding  feet  I  track, 

Toiling  up  new  Calvaries  ever  with  the 
cross  that  turns  not  back, 

And  these  mounts  of  anguish  number 
how  each  generation  learned 

One  new  word  of  that  grand  Credt 
which  in  prophet-hearts  hath 
burned 

Since  the  first  man  stood  God-con- 
quered with  his  face  to  heaven  up- 
turned. 


AN  INDIAN-SUMMER   REVERIE. 


67 


For  Humanity  sweeps  onward  :  where 

to-day  the  martyr  stands. 
On  the  morrow  crouches  Judas  with  the 

silver  in  his  hands  ; 
Far  in  front  the  cross  stands  ready  and 

the  crackling  fagots  burn, 
While  the  hooting  mob  of  yesterday  in 

silent  awe  return 
To  glean   up  the  scattered  ashes  into 

History's  golden  urn. 

'T  is  as  easy  to  be  heroes  as  to  sit  the 

idle  slaves 
Of  a  legendary  virtue  carved  upon  our 

fathers'  graves, 
Worshippers   of  light  ancestral  make 

the  present  light  a  crime  ;  — 
Was  the  Mayflower   launched  by  cow- 
ards, steered  by  men  behind  their 

time  ? 
Turn    those    tracks    toward    Past     or 

Future,  that  make  Plymouth  rock 

sublime  ? 

They  were  men  of  present  valor,  stal- 
wart old  iconoclasts, 

Unconvinced  by  axe  or  gibbet  that  all 
virtue  was  the  Past's  ; 

But  we  make  their  truth  our  falsehood, 
thinking  that  hath  made  us  free, 

Hoarding  it  in  mouldy  parchments, 
while  our  tender  spirits  flee 

The  rude  grasp  of  that  great  Impulse 
which  drove  them  across  the  sea. 

They  have  rights  who  dare  maintain 
them  ;  we  are  traitor.,  to  our  sires, 

Smothering  in  their  holy  ashes  Free- 
dom's new-lit  altar  fires  ; 

Shall  we  make  their  creed  our  jailer  ? 
Shall  we,  in  our  haste  to  slay, 

From  the  tombs  of  the  old  prophets 
steal  the  funeral  lamps  away 

To  light  up  the  martyr-fa?-"  ts  round 
the  prophets  of  to-day  ? 

New  occasions  teach  new  duties  ;  Time 
makes  ancient  good  uncouth  ; 

1'hey  must  upward  still,  and  onward, 
who  would  keep  abreast  of  Truth; 

Lo,'  before  us  gleam  her  camp-fires  !  we 
ourselves  must  Pilgrims  be, 


Launch  our  Mayflower,  and  steer  bold- 
ly through  the  desperate  winter 
sea. 

Nor  attempt   the    Future's  portal  with 
the  Past's  blood-rusted  key. 
December,  1845. 


AN    INDIAN-SUMMER    REV- 
ERIE. 

What  visionary  tints  the  year  put* 
on, 
When    falling  leaves  falter  through 
motionless  air 
Or  numbly  cling  and   shiver  to  be 
gone  ! 
How  shimmer  the  low  fiats  and  pas- 
tures bare, 
As  with  her  nectar  Hebe  Autumn 

fills 
The  bowl  between  me  and  those 
distant  hills, 
And  smiles    and    shakes  abroad    her 
misty,  tremulous  hair  1 

No   more   the  landscape  holds  its 
wealth  apart, 
Making  me  poorer  in  my  poverty, 
But   mingles   with  my  senses   and 
my  heart  ; 
My  own  projected  spirit  seems  to  me 
In  her  own  reverie  the  world  to 

steep  ; 
'T  is  she  that  waves  to  sympathetic 
sleep, 
Moving,  as  she  is  moved,   each  field 
and  hill  and  tree. 

How  fuse  and  mix,  with  what  un- 
felt  degrees, 
Clasped  by  the  faint  horizon's  languid 
arms, 
Each  into  each,  the  hazy  distances  ! 
The  softened  season  all  the  landscap6 
charms ; 
Those  hills,  my  native  village  that 

embay, 
In  waves  of  dreamier  purple  roll 
away, 
And  floating   in   mirage  seem  all  the 
glimmering  farms. 


68 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Far    distant    sounds    the    hidden 
chickadee 
Close  at  my  side  ;  far  distant  sound 
the  leaves  ; 
The  fields   seem   fields  of  dream, 
where  Memory 
Wanders  like  gleaning  Ruth  ;  and  as 
the  sheaves 
Of  wheat   and  barley  wavered  in 

the  eye 
Of  Boaz  as  the  maiden's  glow  went 
by, 
So  tremble  and  seem  remote  all  things 
the  sense  receives. 

The  cock's  shrill  trump  that  tells 
of  scattered  corn, 
Passed  breezily  on  by  all  his  flapping 
mates, 
Faint  and  more  faint,  from  barn  to 
barn  is  borne, 
Southward,  perhaps  to  far  Magellan's 
Straits  ; 
Dimly  I  catch  the  throb  of  distant 

flails  ; 
Silently  overhead    the    hen-hawk 
sails, 
With  watchful,  measuring  eye,  and  for 
his  quarry  waits. 

The  sobered  robin,   hunger-silent 
now, 
Seeks  cedar-berries  blue,  his  autumn 
cheer  ; 
The  squirrel,  on  the  shingly  shag- 
bark's  bough. 
Now  saws,  now  lists  with  downward 
eye  and  ear, 
Then   drops  his  nut,  and,   with  a 

chipping  bound, 
Whisks   to   his    winding    fastness 
underground  ; 
The  clouds  like  swans  drift  down  the 
streaming  atmosphere. 

O'er  yon  bare  knoll  the   pointed 
cedar  shadows 
Drowse  on  the  crisp,  gray  moss  ;  the 
ploughman's  call 
Creeps  faint  as  smoke  from  black, 
fresh-furrowed  meadows  ; 
The  single  crow  a  single  caw  lets  fall ; 
And  all  around  me  every  bush  and 
tree 


Says  Autumn  's  here,  and  Winter 
soon  will  be, 
Who  snows  his  soft,  white  sleep  and 
silence  over  all. 

The  birch,  most  shy  and  ladylike 
of  trees, 
Her  poverty,  as  best  she  may,  re- 
trieves, 
And   hints   at   her  foregone  gen- 
tilities 
With  some  saved  relics  of  her  wealth 
of  leaves ; 
The   swamp-oak,   with    his    royal 

purple  on, 
Glares  red  as  blood  across  the  sink- 
ing sun, 
As  one  who  proudlier  to  a  falling  for- 
tune cleaves. 

He  looks  a  sachem,  in  red  blanket 
wrapt, 
Who,  'mid  some  council  of  the  sad- 
garbed  whites, 
Erect  and  stern,  in  his  own  memo- 
ries lapt, 
With  distant  eye  broods  over  other 
sights, 
Sees  the  hushed  wood  the  city's 

flare  replace, 
The  wounded   turf  heal  o'er  the 
railway's  trace, 
And  roams  the  savage  Past  of  his  un- 
dwindled  rights. 

The  red-oak,  softer-grained,  yields 
all  for  lost. 
And,  with  his  crumpled  foliage  stiff 
and  dry, 
After  the  first  betrayal  of  the  frost, 
Rebuffs  the  kiss  of  the  relenting  sky; 
The  chestnuts,  lavish  of  their  long- 
hid  gold, 
To  the   faint   Summer,   beggared 
now  and  old, 
Pour  back  the  sunshine  hoarded  'neath 
her  favoring  eye. 

The  ash  her  purple  drops  forgiv- 
ingly 
And  sadly,  breaking  not  the  general 
hush  ; 
The    maple-swamps    glow  like  a 
sunset  sea, 
Each  leaf  a  ripple  with  its  separate 
flush; 


AN  INDIAN-SUMMER    REVERIE. 


69 


All  round  the  wood's  edge  creeps 

the  skirting  blaze 
Of  bushes  low,  as  when,  on  cloudy 

days, 
Ere  the  rain  falls,  the  cautious  farmer 

burns  his  brush. 

O'er  yon  low  wall,  which  guards 
one  unkempt  zone, 
Where  vines,  and  weeds,  and  scrub- 
oaks  intertwine 
Safe  from  the  plough,  whose  rough, 
discordant  stone 
Is  massed  to  one  soft  gray  by  lichens 
fine, 
The   tangled   blackberry,    crossed 

and  recrossed,  weaves 
A  prickly  network  of  ensanguined 
leaves ; 
Hard  by,  with  coral  beads,  the  prim 
black-alders  shine. 

Pillaring  with  flame  this  crumbling 
boundary, 
Whose  loose  blocks  topple  'neath  the 
ploughboy's  foot, 
Who,  with  each  sense  shut  fast  ex- 
cept the  eye, 
Creeps  close  and  scares  the  jay  he 
hoped  to  shoot, 
The  woodbine  up  the  elm's  straight 

stem  aspires, 
Coiling  it,  harmless,  with  autumnal 
fires  ; 
In  the  ivy's  paler  blaze  the  martyr  oak 
stands  mute. 

Below,  the  Charles  —  a  stripe  of 
nether  sky, 
Now  hid  by  rounded  apple-trees  be- 
tween, 
Whose    gaps    the   misplaced    sail 
sweeps  bellying  by, 
Now    flickering    golden    through   a 
woodland  screen, 
Then   spreading  out,  at   his   next 

turn  beyond, 
A    silver    circle    like    an    inland 
pond  — 
Slips  seaward  silently  through  marshes 
purple  and  green. 

Dear  marshes  !    vain   to   him   the 
gift  of  sight 
Who  cannot  in  their  various  incomes 
share, 


From  every  season  drawn,  of  shade 
and  light, 
Who  see-;  in  them  but  levels  brown 
and  bare  ; 
Each  change  of  storm  or  sunshine 

scatters  free 
On  them  its  largess  of  variety, 
For   Nature   with    cheap    means    still 
works  her  wonders  rare. 

In  Spring  they  lie  one  broad  ex- 
panse of  green, 
O'er  which  the  light  winds  run  with 
glimmering  feet : 
Here,    yellower   stripes   track  out 
the  creek  unseen, 
There,   darker  growths  o'er  hidden 
ditches  meet ; 
And  purpler  stains  show  where  the 

blossoms  crowd, 
As  if  the  silent  shadow  of  a  cloud 
Hung  there  becalmed,  with  the  next 
breath  to  fleet. 

All  round,   upon  the  river's  slip- 
pery edge, 
Witching  to  deeper  calm  the  drowsy 
tide, 
Whispers   and   leans  the    breeze- 
entangling  sedge  ; 
Through  emerald  glooms  the  linger- 
ing waters  slide, 
Or,    sometimes    wavering,    throw 

back  the  sun, 
And  the  stiff  banks  in  eddies  melt 
and  run 
Of  dimpling  light,   and  with  the  cur- 
rent seem  to  glide. 

In  Summer 't  is  a  blithesome  sight 
to  see, 
As,   step    by    step,    with    measured 
swing,  they  pass, 
The  wide-ranked  mowers  wading 
to  the  knee, 
Their  sharp  scythes  panting  through 
the  thick-set  grass  ; 
Then,  stretched  beneath  a  rick's 

shade  in  a  ring, 
Their  nooning  take,  while  one  be- 
gins to  sing 
A  stave  that  droops  and  dies  'ueath  the 
close  sky  of  brass. 


7° 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Meanwhile  that  devil-may-care,  the 
bobolink, 
Remembering   duty,   in   mid-quaver 
stops 
Just  ere  he  sweeps  o'er  rapture's 
tremulous  brink, 
And    'twixt    the    winrows   most  de- 
murely drops, 
A  decorous  bird  of  business,  who 

provides 
For  his  brown  mate  and  fledglings 
six  besides, 
And  looks  from  right  to  left,  a  farmer 
'mid  his  crops. 

Another  change  subdues  them  in 
the  Fall, 
But   saddens   not  ;    they   still   show 
merrier  tints, 
Though  sober  russet  seems  to  cover 
all: 
When  the  first  sunshine  through  their 
dew-drops  glints, 
Look   how   the    yellow  clearness, 

streamed  across, 
Redeems  with  rarer  hues  the  sea- 
son's loss, 
As  Dawn's  feet  there  had  touched  and 
left  their  rosy  prints. 

Or  come    when   sunset    gives  its 
freshened  zest, 
Lean    o'er  the   bridge   and  let   the 
ruddy  thrill, 
While  the  shorn  sun  swells  down 
the  hazy  west, 
Glow  opposite  ;  —  the  marshes  drink 
their  fill 
And  swoon  with  purple  veins,  then 

slowly  fade 
Through  pink  to  brown,  as  east- 
ward moves  the  shade, 
Lengthening  with  stealthy  creep,  of  Si- 
mond's  darkening  hill. 

Later,  and  yet  ere  Winter  wholly 
shuts, 
Ere  through   the  first  dry  snow  the 
ruruier  grates, 
And  the  loath  cart-wheel  screams 
in  slippery  ruts, 
While  firmer  ice  the  eager  boy  awaits, 
Trying  each  buckle  and  strap  be- 
side the  fire, 


And  until  bedtime  plays  with  his 
desire, 
Twenty  times  putting  on  and  off  his 
new-bought  skates  ;  — 

Then,  every  morn,  the  river's  banks 
shine  bright 
With  smooth  plate-armor,  treacher- 
ous and  frail, 
By  the    frost's   clinking   hammers 
forged  at  night, 
'Gainst  which  the  lances  of  the  sun 
prevail, 
Giving  a  pretty  emblem  of  the  day 
When  guiltier  arms  in  light  shall 
melt  away, 
And   states    shall    move    free-limbed, 
loosed  from  war's  cramping  mail. 

And  now  those  waterfalls  the  ebb- 
ing river 
Twice  every  day   creates   on   either 
side 
Tinkle,    as    through    their  fresh- 
sparred  grots  they  shiver 
In  grass-arched  channels  to  the  sun 
denied ; 
High  flaps  in   sparkling  blue  the 

far-heard  crow, 
The   silvered   fiats  gleam   frostily 
below, 
Suddenly  drops  the  gull  and  breaks  the 
glassy  tide. 

But  crowned  in  turn  by  vying  sea- 
sons three, 
Their  winter  halo  hath  a  fuller  ring  ; 
This  glory  seems  to  rest  immova- 
bly,— 
The  others  were  too  fleet  and  vanish- 
ing ; 
When  the  hid  tide  is  at  its  highest 

flow, 
O'er  marsh  and  stream  one  breath- 
less trance  of  snow 
With  brooding  fulness  awes  and  hushes 
everything. 

The  sunshine  seems  blown  off  by 

the  bleak  wind, 
As  pale  as  formal  candles  lit  by  day  : 
Gropes  to  the  sea  the  river  dumb 

and  blind ; 


AN  INDIAN-SUMMER  REVERIE. 


7i 


The  brown  ricks,  snow-thatched  Jay 
the  storm  in  play, 
Show  pearly  breakers  combing  o'er 

their  lee, 
White  crests  as  of  some  just  en- 
chanted sea, 
Checked  in   their    maddest  leap  and 
hanging  poised  midway. 

But  when  the  eastern  blow,  with 
rain  aslant, 
From  mid-sea's  prairies  green  and 
rolling  plains 
Drives  in  his  wallowing  herds  of 
billows  gaunt, 
And  the  roused  Charles  remembers 
in  his  veins 
Old  Ocean's  blood  and  snaps  his 

gyves  of  frost, 
That    tyrannous    silence     on    the 
shores  is  tost 
In  dreary  wreck,  and  crumbling  deso- 
lation reigns. 

Edgewise  or  flat,  in  Druid-like  de- 
vice, 
With  leaden  pools  between  or  gullies 
bare, 
The   blocks    lie    strewn,   a    bleak 
Stonehenge  of  ice  ; 
No  life,  no  sound,  to  break  the  grim 
despair, 
Save  sullen  plunge,  as  through  the 

sedges  stiff 
Down    crackles     riverward     some 
thaw-sapped  cliff, 
Or  when  the  close-wedged  fields  of  ice 
crunch  here  and  there. 

But  let  me   turn   from  fancy-pic- 
tured scenes 
To  that  whose  pastoral  calm  before 
me  lies : 
Here  nothing  harsh  or  rugged  in- 
tervenes ; 
The   early   evening  with   her   misty 
dyes 
Smooths  off  the  ravelled  edges  of 

the  nigh, 
Relieves  the  distant  with  her  cool- 
er sky, 
And   tones  the   landscape  down,  and 
soothes  the  wearied  eyes. 


There  gleams  my  native  village, 
dear  to  me, 
Though  higher  change's  waves  each 
day  are  seen, 
Whelming   fields    famed   in    boy- 
hood's history, 
Sanding  with  houses  the  diminished 
green  ; 
There,  in  red  brick,  which  soften- 
ing time  defies, 
Stand  square  and  stiff  the  Muses' 
factories ;  — 
How  with  my  life  knit  up  is  every  well- 
known  scene  ! 

Flow  on,  dear  river  !  not  alone  you 
flow 
To  outward  sight,  and  through  your 
marshes  wind ; 
Fed   from   the   mystic  springs  of 
long-ago, 
Your   twin   flows  silent  through  my 
world  of  mind  : 
Grow  dim,  dear  marshes,  in   the 

evening's  gray  ! 
Before  my  inner  sight  ye  stretch 
away, 
And  will  forever,  though  these  fleshly 
eyes  grow  blind. 

Beyond  the  hillock's  house-bespot- 
ted  swell, 
Where   Gothic    chapels    house    the 
horse  and  chaise, 
Where  quiet  cits  in  Grecian  tem- 
ples dwell, 
Where  Coptic  tombs  resound  with 
prayer  and  praise, 
Where  dust  and  mud  the  equal 

year  divide, 
There   gentle    Allston   lived,   and 
wrought,  and  died, 
Transfiguring  street  and  shop  with  his 
illumined  gaze. 

Virgilium  vidi  tantunt,  —  I  have 
seen 
But  as  a  boy,  who  looks  alike  on  all, 
That  misty  hair,  that  fine    Undine- 
like mien, 
Tremulous     as     down     the     feeling's 
faintest  call  :  — 
Ah,  dear  old   homestead  I    count   it 
to  thy  fame 


7* 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


That  thither  many  times  the  Paint- 
er came  ;  — 
One  elm  yet  bears  his  name,  a  feathery 
tree  and  tall. 

Swiftly  the  present  fades  in  memo- 
ry's glow,  — 
Our  only  sure  possession  is  the  past  ; 
The    village     blacksmith    died    a 
month  ago, 
And  dim  to  me  the  forge's  roaring 
blast  ; 
Soon  fire-new  mediaivals  we  shall 

see 
Oust    the   black  smithy    from   its 
chestnut-tree, 
And  that  hewn  down,  perhaps,  the  bee- 
hive green  and  vast. 

How   many  times,   prouder  than 
king  on  throne, 
Loosed     from     the    village    school- 
dame's  A's  and  B's, 
Panting  have  I  the  creaking  bel- 
lows blown, 
And  watched  the  pent  volcano's  red 
increase, 
Then  paused  to  see  the  ponderous 

sledge,  brought  down 
By  that  hard  arm  voluminous  and 
brown, 
From  the  white  iron  swarm  its  golden 
vanishing  bees. 

Dear  native  town  !  whose  choking 
elms  each  year 
With  eddying  dust  before  their  time 
turn  gray, 
Pining  for  rain,  —  to  me  thy  dust  is 
dear; 
It  glorifies  the  eve  of  summer  day, 
And  when  the  westering  sun  half 

sunken  burns, 
The    mote-thick    air    to    deepest 
orange  turns, 
The  westward  horseman  rides  through 
clouds  of  gold  away, 

So  palpable,  I  've  seen  those  un- 
shorn few. 
The  six  old  willows  at  the  causey's 

end 


(Such    trees    Paul     Potter    never 
dreamed  nor  drew), 
Through  this  dry  mist  their  checker- 
ing shadows  send, 

Striped,  here  and  there,  with  many 
a  long-drawn  thread, 

Where     streamed     through     leafy 
chinks  the  trembling  red, 
Past   which,    in   one  bright   trail,   the 
hangbird's  flashes  blend. 

Yes,  dearer  far  thy  dust  than  all 
that  e'er, 
Beneath  the  awarded  crown  of  victory, 
Gilded  the  blown  Olympic  chariot- 
eer ; 
Though  lightly  prized  the  ribboned 
parchments  three, 
Yet  collegisse  jtivat,   I  am  glad 
That  here  what  colleging  was  mine 
I  had,  — 
It  linked  another  tie,  dear  native  town, 
with  thee  ! 

Nearer  art  thou  than  simply  native 
earth, 
My  dust  with  thine  concedes  a  deep- 
er tie ; 
A  closer  claim  thy   soil  may  well 
put  forth, 
Something    of   kindred    more    than 
sympathy  ; 
For  in  thy  bounds  I  reverently  laid 

away 
That  blinding  anguish  of  forsaken 
clay, 
That  title   I  seemed  to  have  in  earth 
and  sea  and  sky, 

That  portion  of  my  life  more  choice 
to  me 
(Though  brief,  yet  in  itself  so  round 
and  whole) 
Than  all  the  imperfect  residue  can 
be;  — 
The  Artist  saw  his  statue  of  the  soul 
Was  perfect  ;  so,  with  one  regret- 
ful stroke, 
The  earthen  model  into  fragments 
broke, 
And    without    her    the    impoverished 
seasons  roll. 


THE   GROWTH  OF  THE   LEGEND. 


73 


THE    GROWTH    OF    THE 
LEGEND. 

A  FRAGMENT. 

A  legend  that  grew  in  the  forest's  hush 
Slowly  as  tear-drops  gather  and  gush, 
When  a  word  some  poet  chanced  to  say 
Ages  ago,  in  his  careless  way, 
Brings  our  youth  back  to  us  out  of  its 

shroud 
Clearly  as  under  yon  thunder-cloud 
I  see  that  white  sea-gull.     It  grew  and 

grew, 
From  the  pine-trees  gathering  a  sombre 

hue, 
Till  it  seems  a  mere  murmur  out  of  the 

vast 
Norwegian  forests  of  the  past; 
And  it  gjew  itself  like  a  true  Northern 

pine, 
First  a  little  slender  line, 
Like  a  mermaid's  green  eyelash,  and 

then  anon 
A  stem  that  a  tower  might  rest  upon, 
Standing  spear-straight   in   the   waist- 
deep  moss, 
Its  bony  roots  clutching  around  and 

across, 
As  if  they  would  tear  up  earth's  heart 

in  their  grasp 
Ere  the  storm  should  uproot  them  or 

make  them  unclasp ; 
Its  cloudy  boughs  singing,   as  suiteth 

the  pine, 
To  shrunk  snow-bearded  sea-kings  old 

songs  of  the  brine, 
Till   they   straightened   and    let    their 

staves  fall  to  the  floor, 
Hearing  waves    moan    again   on    the 

perilous  shore 
Of  Vinland,  perhaps,  while  their  prow 

groped  its  way 
'Twixt  the  frothy  gnashed  tusks  of  some 

ship-crunching  bay. 

So,  pine-like,  the  legend  grew,  strong- 
limbed  and  tall, 

As  the  Gypsy  child  grows  that  eats 
crusts  in  the  hall  ; 

It  sucked  the  whole  strength  of  the 
earth  and  the  sky, 

Spring,  Summer,  Fall,  Winter,  all 
brought  it  supply ; 


'Twas  a  natural  growth,  and  stood  fear- 
lessly there, 

A  true  part  of  the  landscape  as  sea, 
land,  and  air  ; 

For  it  grew  in  good  times,  ere  the 
fashion  it  was 

To  force  up  these  wild  births  of  the 
woods  under  glass, 

And  so,  if 't  is  told  as  it  should  be  told, 

Though  't  were  sung  under  Venice's 
moonlight  of  gold, 

You  would  hear  the  old  voice  of  its 
mother,  the  pine, 

Murmur  sealike  and  northern  through 
every  line, 

And  the  verses  should  hang,  self-sus- 
tained and  free, 

Round  the  vibrating  stem  of  the  melody, 

Like  the  lithe  sun-steeped  limbs  of  the 
parent  tree. 

Yes,  the  pine  is  the  mother  of  legends  ; 

what  food 
For   their  grim  roots  is  left  when  the 

thousand-yeared  wood  — 
The  dim-aisled  cathedral,   whose   tall 

arches  spring 
Light,  sinewy,  graceful,  firm-set  as  the 

wing 
From   Michael's  white    shoulder  —  is 

hewn  and  defaced 
By  iconoclast  axes  in  desperate  waste, 
And  its  wrecks  seek  the  ocean  it  pro- 
phesied long, 
Cassandra-like,    crooning   its    mystical 

song? 
Then  the  legends  go  with  them,  — even 

yet  on  the  sea 
A  wild  virtue  is  left  in  the  touch  of  the 

tree, 
And    the    sailor's    night-watches     are 

thrilled  to  the  core 
With  the  lineal  offspring  of  Odin  and 

Thor. 

Yes,  wherever  the  pine-wood  has  never 

let  in, 
Since  the  day  of  creation,  the  light  and 

the  din 
Of  manifold  life,  but  has  safely  conveyed 
From  the  midnight  primeval  its  armful 

of  shade, 
And  has  kept  the  weird  Past  with  its 

sagas  alive 


74 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


'Mid  the  hum  and  the  stir  of  To-day's 
busy  hive, 

There  the  legend  takes  root  in  the  age- 
gathered  gloom, 

And  its  murmurous  boughs  for  their 
tossing  find  room. 

Where  Aroostook,  far-heard,  seems  to 
sob  as  he  goes 

Groping  down  to  the  sea  'neath  his 
mountainous  snows  ; 

Where  the  lake's  frore  Sahara  of  never- 
tracked  white, 

When  the  crack  shoots  across  it,  com- 
plains to  the  night 

With  a  long,  lonely  moan,  that  leagues 
northward  is  lost, 

As  the  ice  shrinks  away  from  the  tread 
of  the  frost ; 

Where  the  lumberers  sit  by  the  log-fires 
which  throw 

Their  own  threatening  shadows  far 
round  o'er  the  snow, 

When  the  wolf  howls  aloof,  and  the 
wavering  glare 

Flashes  out  from  the  blackness  the  eyes 
of  the  bear, 

When  the  wood's  huge  recesses,  half- 
lighted,  supply 

A  canvas  where  Fancy  her  mad  brush 
may  try, 

Blotting  in  giant  Horrors  that  venture 
not  down 

Through  the  right-angled  streets  of  the 
brisk,  whitewashed  town,      • 

But  skulk  in  the  depths  of  the  measure- 
less wood 

'Mid  the  Dark's  creeping  whispers  that 
curdle  the  blood, 

When  the  eye,  glanced  in  dread  o'er 
the  shoulder,  may  dream, 

Ere  it  shrinks  to  the  camp-fire's  com- 
panioning gleam, 

That  it  saw  the  fierce  ghost  of  the  Red 
Man  crouch  back 

To  the  shroud  of  the  tree-trunk's  in- 
vincible black  ;  — 

There  the  old  shapes  crowd  thick  round 
the  pine-shadowed  camp, 

Which  shun  the  keen  gleam  of  the 
scholarly  lamp, 

And  the  seed  of  the  legend  finds  true 
Norland  ground, 

While  the  border-tale  's  told  and  the 
canteen  flits  round. 


A  CONTRAST. 

Thy  love  thou  sentestoft  to  me. 
And  still  as  oft  I  thrust  it  back  ; 

Thy  messengers  I  could  not  see 

In  those  who  everything  did  lack,  ■ — 
The  poor,  the  outcast,  and  the  black. 

Pride  held  his  hand  before  mine  eyes, 
The  world  with  flattery  stuffed  mine 
ears  ; 
I  looked  to  see  a  monarch's  guise, 
Nor  dreamed  thy  love  would  knock 

for  years, 
Poor,  naked,  fettered,  full  of  tears. 

Yet,  when  I  sent  my  love  to  thee, 
Thou  with  a  smile  didst  take  it  in, 

And  entertain'dst  it  royally, 

Though    grimed    with    earth,    with 

hunger  thin, 
And  leprous  with  the  taint  of  sin. 

Now  every  day  thy  love  I  meet, 
As  o'er  the  earth  it  wanders  wide, 

With  weary  step  and  bleeding  feet, 
Still  knocking  at  the  heart  of  pride 
Andofferinggrace,  though  still  denied. 


EXTREME   UNCTION. 

Go  !  leave  me,  Priest ;  my  soul  would 
be 
Alone  with  the  consoler,  Death  ; 
Far  sadder  eyes  than  thine  will  see 
This    crumbling    clay    yield    up  its 
breath  ; 
These    shrivelled  hands  have   deeper 
stains 
Than  holy  oil  can  cleanse  away,  — 
Hands  that  have  plucked  the  world's 
coarse  gains 
As  erst  they  plucked  the  flowers  of 
May. 

Call,  if  thou  canst,  to  those  gray  eyes 
Some  faith  from    youth's  traditions 
wrung  ; 
This    fruitless    husk  which    dustward 
dries 
Has  been   a  heart  once,   has  been 
young ; 


EXTREME    UNCTION.— THE   OAK. 


75 


On  this  bowed  head  the  awful  Past 
Once  laid  its  consecrating  hands  ; 

The  Future  in  its  purpose  vast 

Paused,    waiting   my  supreme  com- 
mands. 

But  look  !    whose  shadows  block  the 
door? 
Who  are  those  two  that  stand  aloof? 
See  !  on  my  hands  this  freshening  gore 
Writes  o'er  again  its  crimson  proof! 
My   looked-for   death-bed    guests   are 
met  ;  — 
There  my  dead  Youth  doth  wring  its 
hands, 
And  there,  with  eyes  that  goad  me  yet, 
The  ghost  of  my  Ideal  stands  1 

.  God  bends  from  out  the  deep  and  says, — 

"  I  gave  thee  the  great  gift  of  life  ; 
Wast  thou  not  called  in  many  ways? 

Are  not  my  earth  and  heaven  at  strife  ? 
I  gave  thee  of  my  seed  to  sow, 

Bringest  thou  me  my  hundred-fold  ? " 
Can  I  look  up  with  face  aglow, 

And  answer,  "  Father,  here  is  gold  "  ? 

I  have  been  innocent  ;  God  knows 

When  first  this  wasted  life  began, 
Not    grape    with    grape   more   kindly 
grows, 

Than  I  with  every  brother-man  : 
Now  here  I  gasp  ;  what  lose  my  kind, 

When    this  fast  ebbing  breath  shall 
part? 
What  bands  of  love  and  service  bind 

This  being  to  the  world's  sad  heart? 

Christ  still  was  wandering  o'er  the  earth 

Without  a  place  to  lay  his  head  ; 
He  found  free  welcome  at  my  hearth, 

He   shared  my  cup   and  broke  my 
bread  : 
Now,  when  I  hear  those  steps  sublime, 

That  bring  the  other  world  to  this, 
My  snake-turned  nature,  sunk  in  slime, 

Starts  sideway  with  defiant  hiss. 

Upon  the  hour  when  I  was  born, 
God  said,  "  Another  man  shall  be," 

And  the  great  Maker  did  not  scorn 
Out  of  himself  to  fashion  me  ; 

He  sunned  me  with  his  ripening  looks, 


And  Heaven's  rich  instincts  in  me 
grew, 
As  effortless  as  woodland  nooks 

Send  violets  up  and  paint  them  blue. 

Yes,  I  who  now,  with  angry  tears, 

Am  exiled  back  to  brutish  clod, 
Have  borne  unquenched  for  fourscore 
years 

A  spark  of  the  eternal  God  ; 
And  to  what  end  ?     How  yield  I  back 

The  trust  for  such  high  uses  given  ? 
Heaven's  light  hath  but  revealed  a  track 

Whereby  to  crawl  away  from  heaven. 

Men  think  it  is  an  awful  sight 

To  see  a  soul  just  set  adrift 
On  that  drear  voyage  from  whose  night 

The  ominous  shadows  never  lift ; 
But  't  is  more  awful  to  behold 

A  helpless  infant  newly  born, 
Whose  little  hands  unconscious  hold 

The  keys  of  darkness  and  of  morn. 

Mine  held  them  once  ;  I  flung  away 

Those  keys  that  might  have  open  set 
The  golden  sluices  of  the  day, 

But  clutch  the  keys  of  darkness  yet ; — 
I  hear  the  reapers  singing  go 

Into  God's  harvest ;  I,  that  might 
With  them  have  chosen,  here  below 

Grope   shuddering  at  the  gates  of 
night. 

O  glorious  Youth,  that  once  wast  mine  I 

0  high  Ideal  !  all  in  vain 
Ye  enter  at  this  ruined  shrine 

Whence    worship    ne'er    shall    rise 
again ; 
The  bat  and  owl  inhabit  here, 

The  snake  nests  in  the  altar-stone, 
The  sacred  vessels  moulder  near, 

The  image  of  the  God  is  gone. 


THE  OAK. 

What  gnarled  stretch,  what  depth  of 
shade,  is  his ! 
There  needs  no  crown  to  mark  the 
forest's  king ; 

How  in  his  leaves  outshines  full  sum- 
mer's bliss  1 


76 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Sun,  storm,  rain,  dew,  to  him  their 
tribute  bring, 
Which  he  with  such  benignant  royalty 
Accepts,  as  overpayeth  what  is  lent  ; 
All  nature  seems  his  vassal  proud  to 
be, 
And  cunning  only  for  his  ornament. 

How  towers  he,  too,  amid  the  billowed 
snows, 
An   unquelled   exile   from  the  sum- 
mer's throne, 
Whose   plain,  uncinctured  front  more 
kingly  shows, 
Now    that    the    obscuring    courtier 
leaves  are  flown. 
His  boughs  make  music  of  the  winter 
air, 
Jewelled  with  sleet,  like  some  cathe- 
dral front 
Where  clinging  snow-flakes  with  quaint 
art  repair 
The  dints  and  furrows  of  time's  en- 
vious brunt. 

How  doth  his  patient  strength  the  rude 
March  wind 
Persuade   to   seem   glad  breaths  of 
summer  breeze, 
And  win  the  soil  that  fain  would  be  un- 
kind, 
To  swell  his  revenues  with  proud  in- 
crease ! 
He  is  the  gem  ;  and  all  the  landscape 
wide 
(So   doth   his  grandeur   isolate    the 
sense) 
Seems  but  the  setting,  worthless  all  be- 
side, 
An   empty  socket,   were    he    fallen 
thence. 

So,  from  oft  converse  with  life's  wintry 
gales, 
Should  man  learn  how  to  clasp  with 
tougher  roots 
The  inspiring  earth;  —  how  otherwise 
avails 
The  leaf-creating  sap  that  sunward 
shoots  ? 
So  every  year  that  falls  with  noiseless 
flake 
Should  till  old  scars  up  on  the  storm- 
ward  side, 


And  make  hoar  age  revered  for  age's 
sake, 
Not   for  traditions  of  youth's  leafy 
pride. 

So,  from  the  pinched  soil  of  a  churlish 
fate, 
True  hearts  compel  the   sap   of  stur 
dier  growth, 
So  between   earth   and   heaven   stand 
simply  great, 
That  these  shall  seem  but  their  at- 
tendants both  ; 
For  nature's  forces  with  obedient  zeal 
Wait  on  the  rooted  faith  and  oaken 
will  ; 
As  quickly  the  pretender's  cheat  they 
feel, 
And   turn    mad   Pucks  to  flout  and 
mock  him  still. 

Lord  !  all  thy  works  are  lessons,  —  each 
contains 
Some  emblem  of  man's  all-contain- 
ing soul ; 
Shall  he  make  fruitless  all  thy  glorious 
pains, 
Delving  within  thy  grace  an  eyeless 
mole  ? 
Make   me   the   least  of  thy  Dodona- 
grove, 
Cause  me  some  message  of  thy  truth 
to  bring, 
Speak  but  a  word  through  me,  nor  let 
thy  love 
Among  my  boughs  disdain  to  perch 
and  sing. 


AMBROSE. 

Never,  surely,  was  holier  man 

Than  Ambrose,  since  the  world  began  ; 

With  diet  spare  and  raiment  thin 

He  shielded  himself  from  the   father  of 

sin  ; 
With  bed  of  iron  and  scourgings  oft, 
His  heart  to  God's  hand  as  wax  made 

soft. 

Through  earnest  prayer  and  watchings 

long 
He  sought  to  know  'twixt  right  and 

wrong, 


AMBROSE.— ABOVE   AND  BELOW. 


77 


Much  wrestling  with  the  blessed  Word 
To  make  it  yield  the  sense  of  the  Lord, 
That   he   might    build    a    storm-proof 

creed 
To  fold  the  tlock  in  at  their  need. 

At  last  he  builded  a  perfect  faith, 
Fenced   round   about  with  The  Lord 

thus  saith  ; 
To  himself  he  fitted  the  doorway's  size, 
Meted  the  light  to  the  need  of  his  eyes, 
And  knew,  by  a  sure  and  inward  sign, 
That  the  work  of  his  fingers  was  divine. 

Then  Ambrose  said,   "All  those  shall 

die 
The  eternal  death  who  believe  not  as 

I"; 
And  some  were  boiled,  some  burned  in 

fire, 
Some  sawn  in  twain,  that  his  heart's 

desire, 
For  the  good  of  men's  souls,  might  be 

satisfied, 
By  the  drawing  of  all  to  the  righteous 

side. 

One  day,  as  Ambrose  was  seeking  the 

truth 
In  his  lonely  walk,  he  saw  a  youth 
Resting  himself  in  the  shade  of  a  tree ; 
It  had  never  been  given  him  to  see 
So  shining  a  face,  and  the  good  man 

thought 
'Twere  pity  he  should  not  believe  as 

he  ought. 

So  he  set  himself  by  the  young  man's 
side, 

And  the  state  of  his  soul  with  questions 
tried ; 

But  the  heart  of  the  stranger  was  hard- 
ened indeed, 

Nor  received  the  stamp  of  the  one  true 
creed, 

And  the  spirit  of  Ambrose  waxed  sore 
to  find 

Such  face  the  porch  of  so  narrow  a 
mind. 

"As  each  beholds  in  cloud  and  fire 
The  shape  that  answers  his  own  desire, 
So  each,"  said  the  youth,  "in  the  Law 
shall  find 


The  figure  and  features  of  his  mind  ; 
And  to  each  in  his  mercy  hath  God  al- 
lowed 
His  several  pillar  of  fire  and  cloud." 

The  soul  of  Ambrose  burned  with  zeal 
And  holy  wrath  for  the  young  man's 

weal  : 
"Believest  thou  then,    most  wretched 

youth," 
Cried  he,  "  a  dividual  essence  in  Truth  ? 
I  fear  me  thy  heart  is  too  cramped  with 

sin 
To  take  the  Lord  in  his  glory  in." 

Now  there  bubbled  beside  them  where 

they  stood 
A  fountain  of  waters  sweet  and  good  ; 
The  youth  to  the  streamlet's  brink  drew 

near 
Saying,    "Ambrose,    thou     maker    of 

creeds,  look  here  !  " 
Six  vases  of  crystal  then  he  took, 
And  set  them  along  the   edge  of  the 

brook. 

"As  into  these  vessels  the  water  I  pour, 
There  shall  one  hold  less,  another  more, 
And  the  water  unchanged,   in    every 

case, 
Shall  put  on  the  figure  of  the  vase  ; 
O    thou,    who    wouldst     unity    make 

through  strife, 
Canst  thou  fit  this  sign  to  the  Water  of 

Life? 

When  Ambrose  looked  up,   he  stood 

alone, 
The  youth  and  the  stream  and  the  vases 

were  gone  ; 
But  he  knew,  by   a  sense   of  humbled 

grace, 
He  had  talked  with  an  angel  face  to 

face, 
And  felt  his  heart  change  inwardly, 
As  he  fell  on  his  knees  beneath  the  tree. 


ABOVE   AND   BELOW. 


O  dwellers  in  the  valley-land, 
Who   in  deep    twilight    grope    and 
cower, 


78 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Till  the  slow  mountain's  dial-hand 
Shortens  to  noon's  triumphal  hour, — 

While  ye  sit  idle,  do  ye  think 

The  Lord's  great  work  sits  idle  too? 

That  light  dare  not  o'erleap  the  brink 
Of  morn,  because  't  is  dark  with  you  ? 

Though  yet  your  valleys  skulk  in  night, 

In  God's  ripe  fields  the  day  is  cried, 
And  reapers,  with  their  sickles  bright, 

Troop,  singing,  down  the  mountain- 
side : 
Come  up,  and  feel  what  health  there  is 

In  the  frank  Dawn's  delighted  eyes, 
As,  bending  with  a  pitying  kiss, 

The  night-shed  tears  of  Earth  she 
dries  ! 

The  Lord  wants  reapers  :  O,  mount  up, 

Before  night  comes,  and  says, — "  Too 
late  !  " 
Stay  not  for  taking  scrip  or  cup, 

The  Master  hungers  while  ye  wait ; 
'T  is  from  these  heights  alone  your  eyes 

The  advancing  spears  of  day  can  see, 
Which  o'er  the  eastern  hill-tops  rise, 

To  break  your  long  captivity. 


Lone  watcher  on  the  mountain-height ! 

It  is  right  precious  to  behold 
The  first  long  surf  of  climbing  light 

Flood  all  the  thirsty  east  with  gold  ; 
But  we,  who  in  the  shadow  sit, 

Know  also  when  the  day  is  nigh, 
Seeing  thy  shining  forehead  lit 

With  his  inspiring  prophecy. 

Thou  hast  thine  office  ;  we  have  ours  ; 

God  lacks  not  early  service  here, 
But  what  are  thine  eleventh  hours 

He    counts    with    us    for    morning 
cheer ; 
Our  day,  for  Him,  is  long  enough, 

And  when  he  giveth  work  to  do, 
The  bruised  reed  is  amply  tough 

To  pierce  the  shield  of  error  through. 

But  not  the  less  do  thou  aspire 

Light's  earlier  messages  to  preach  ; 

Keep  back  no  syllable  of  fire,  — 
Plunge  deep  the  rowels  of  thy  speech. 

Yet  God  deems  not  thine  aeried  sight 


More     worthy     than    our    twilight 
dim,  — 
For  meek  Obedience,  too,  is  Light, 
And  following  that  is  finding  Him. 


THE   CAPTIVE. 

It  was  past  the  hour  of  trysting, 
But  she  lingered  for  him  still ; 

Like  a  child,  the  eager  streamlet 
Leaped  and  laughed  adown  the  hill, 

Happy  to  be  free  at  twilight 
From  its  toiling  at  the  mill. 

Then  the  great  moon  on  a  sudden 
Ominous,  and  red  as  blood, 

Startling  as  a  new  creation, 
O'er  the  eastern  hill-top  stood, 

Casting  deep  and  deeper  shadows 
Through  the  mystery  of  the  wood. 

Dread  closed  huge  and  vague   about 
her, 

And  her  thoughts  turned  fearfully 
To  her  heart,  if  there  some  shelter 

From  the  silence  there  might  be, 
Like  bare  cedars  leaning  inland 

From  the  blighting  of  the  sea. 

Yet  he  came  not,  and  the  stillness 
Dampened  round  her  like  a  tomb  ; 

She  could  feel  cold  eyes  of  spirits 
Looking  on  her  through  the  gloom, 

She  could  hear  the  groping  footsteps 
Of  some  blind,  gigantic  doom. 

Suddenly  the  silence  wavered 
Like  a  light  mist  in  the  wind, 

For  a  voice  broke  gently  through  it, 
Felt  like  sunshine  by  the  blind, 

And  the  dread,  like  mist  in  sunshine, 
Furled  serenely  from  her  mind. 

"  Once  my  love,  my  love  forever,  — 
Flesh  or  spirit  still  the  same  ; 

If  I  missed  the  hour  of  trysting, 
Do  not  think  my  faith  to  blame, 

I,  alas,  was  made  a  captive, 
As  from  Holy  Land  I  came. 

"  On  a  green  spot  in  the  desert, 
Gleaming  like  an  emerald  star, 


THE   CAPTIVE.  — THE   BIRCH-TREE. 


19 


Where  a  palm-tree,  in  lone  silence, 

Yearning  for  its  mate  afar, 
Droops  above  a  silver  runnel, 

Slender  as  a  scimitar,  — 

"  There  thou  'It  find  the  humble  postern 

To  the  castle  of  my  foe  ; 
If  thy  love  burn  clear  and  faithful, 

Strike  the  gateway,  green  and  low, 
Ask  to  enter,  and  the  warder 

Surely  will  not  say  thee  no." 

Slept  again  the  aspen  silence, 
But  her  loneliness  was  o'er  ; 

Round  her  heart  a  motherly  patience 
Wrapt  its  arms  forevermore  ; 

From  her  soul  ebbed  back  the  sorrow, 
Leaving  smooth  the  golden  shore. 

Donned  she  now  the  pilgrim  scallop, 
Took  the  pilgrim  staff  in  hand  ; 

Like  a  cloud-shade,  flitting  eastward, 
Wandered  she  o'er  sea  and  land  ; 

And  her  footsteps  in  the  desert 
Fell  like  cool  rain  on  the  sand. 

Soon,  beneath  the  palm-tree's  shadow, 
Knelt  she  at  the  postern  low  ; 

And  thereat  she  knocketh  gently, 
Fearing  much  the  warder's  no  ; 

All  her  heart  stood  still  and  listened, 
As  the  door  swung  backward  slow. 

There  she  saw  no  surly  warder 
With  an  eye  like  bolt  and  bar  ; 

Through  her  soul  a  sense  of  music 
Throbbed,  —  and,    like    a    guardian 
Lar, 

On  the  threshold  stood  an  angel, 
Bright  and  silent  as  a  star. 

Fairest  seemed  he  of  God's  seraphs, 

And  her  spirit,  lily-wise, 
Blossomed  when  he  turned  upon  her 

The  deep  welcome  of  his  eyes, 
Sending  upward  to  that  sunlight 

All  its  dew  for  sacrifice. 

Then  she  heard  a  voice  come  onward 
Singing  with  a  rapture  new, 

As  Eve  heard  the  songs  in  Eden, 
Dropping  earthward  with  the  dew  ; 

Well  she  knew  the  happy  singer, 
Well  the  happy  song  she  kn«w. 


Forward  leaped  she  o'er  the  threshold, 

Eager  as  a  glancing  surf; 
Fell  from  her  the  spirit's  languor, 

Fell  from  her  the  body's  scurf ;  — 
'Neath  the  palm  next  day  some  Arabs 

Found  a  corpse  upon  the  turf. 


THE  BIRCH-TREE. 

Rippling  through  thy  branches  goes 
the  sunshine, 

Among  thy  leaves  that  palpitate  for- 
ever ; 

Ovid  in  thee  a  pining  Nymph  had  pris- 
oned, 

The  soul  once  of  some  tremulous  in- 
land river, 

Quivering  to  tell  her  woe,  but,  ah  I 
dumb,  dumb  forever! 

While    all    the    forest,    witched    with 

slumberous  moonshine, 
Holds  up  its  leaves   in  happy,  happy 

silence, 
Waiting  the  dew,  with  breath  and  pulse 

suspended,  — 
I    hear  afar    thy    whispering,   gleamy 

islands, 
And  track  thee  wakeful  still  amid  the 

wide-hung  silence. 

Upon  the  brink  of  some  wood-nestled 

lakelet, 
Thy  foliage,  like  the  tresses  of  a  Dryad, 
Dripping  about   thy   slim  white  stem, 

whose  shadow 
Slopes    quivering    down     the    water's 

dusky  quiet, 
Thou  shrink'st  as  on  her  bath's  edge 

would  some  startled  Dryad. 

Thou  art  the  go-between  of  rustic  lovers ; 
Thy  white  bark  has  their  secrets  in  its 

keeping ; 
Reuben  writes  here  the  happy  name  of 

Patience, 
And  thy  lithe  boughs  hang  murmuring 

and  weeping 
Above  her,  as  she   steals  the  mystery 

from  thy  keeping. 

Thou  art  to  me  like  my  beloved  maiden, 
So  frankly  coy,  so  full  of  trembly  confi- 
dences ; 


8o 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Thy  shadow  scarce  seems  shade,  thy 

pattering  leaflets 
Sprinkle  their  gathered  sunshine  o'er 

my  senses, 
And  Nature  gives  me  all  her  summer 

confidences. 

Whether  my  heart  with  hope  or  sorrow 
tremble, 

Thou  sympathizest  still ;  wild  and  un- 
quiet, 

I  fling  me  clown;  thy  ripple,  like     river, 

Flows  valleyward,  where  calmness  is, 
and  by  it 

My  heart  is  floated  down  into  the  land 
of  quiet. 


AN  INTERVIEW  WITH  MILES 
STANDISH. 

I  sat  one  evening  in  my  room, 

In  that  sweet  hour  of  twilight 
When  blended  thoughts,  half  light,  half 
gloom, 

Throng  through  the  spirit's  skylight ; 
The  flames  by  fits  curled  round  the  bars, 

Or  up  the  chimney  crinkled, 
While  embers  dropped  like  falling  stars, 

And  in  the  ashes  tinkled. 

I  sat  and  mused  ;  the  fire  burned  low, 

And,  o'er  my  senses  stealing, 
Crept  something  of  the  ruddy  glow 

That  bloomed  on  wall  and  ceiling; 
My  pictures  (they  are  very  few,  — 

The  heads  of  ancient  wise  men) 
Smoothed  down  their  knotted  fronts, 
and  grew 

As  rosy  as  excisemen. 

My  antique  high-backed  Spanish  chair 

Felt  thrills  through  wood  and  leather, 
That  had  been  strangers  since  whilere, 

'Mid  Andalusian  heather, 
The  oak  that  made  its  sturdy  frame 

His  happy  arms  stretched  over 
The  ox  whose  fortunate  hide  became 

The  bottom's  polished  cover. 

It  came  out  in  that  famous  bark 
That  brought  our  sires  intrepid, 

Capacious  as  another  ark 
For  furniture  decrepit ;  — 


For,  as  that  saved  of  bird  and  beast 

A  pair  for  propagation, 
So  has  the  seed  of  these  increased 

And  furnished  half  the  nation. 

Kings  sit,  they  say,  in  slippery  seats-. 

But  those  slant  precipices 
Of  ice  the  northern  voyager  meets 

Less  slippery  are  than  this  is ; 
To  cling  therein  would  pass  the  wit 

Of  royal  man  or  woman, 
And  whatsoe'er  can  stay  in  it 

Is  more  or  less  than  human 

I  offer  to  all  bores  this  perch, 

Dear  well-intentioned  people 
With  heads  as  void  as  week-day  church, 

Tongues  longer  than  the  steeple  ; 
To  folks  with  missions,  whose  gaunt 
eyes 

See  golden  ages  rising,  — 
Salt  of  the  earth  !  in  what  queer  Guys 

Thou  'rt  fond  of  crystallizing  ! 

My  wonder,  then,  was  not  unmixed 

With  merciful  suggestion, 
When,  as  my  roving  eyes  grew  fixed 

Upon  the  chair  in  question, 
I  saw  its  trembling  arms  enclose 

A  figure  grim  and  rusty, 
Whose  doublet  plain  and  plainer  hose 

Were  something  worn  and  dusty. 

Now  even  such  men  as  Nature  forms 

Merely  to  fill  the  street  with, 
Once  turned  to  ghosts  by  hungry  worms, 

Are  serious  things  to  meet  with  ; 
Your  penitent  spirits  are  no  jokes, 

And,  though  I  'm  not  averse  to 
A  quiet  shade,  even  they  are  folks 

One  cares  not  to  speak  first  to. 

Who  knows,  thought  I.  but  he  has  come, 

By  Charon  kindly  ferried, 
To  tell  me  of  a  mighty  sum 

Behind  my  wainscot  buried? 
There  is  a  buccaneerish  air 

About  that  garb  outlandish  — 
Just  then  the  ghost  drew  up  his  chair 

And  said,  "  My  name  is  Standish. 

"  I  come  from  Plymouth,  deadly  bored 
With  toasts,  and  songs,  and  speeches, 

As  long  and  flat  as  my  old  sword, 
As  threadbare  as  my  breeches  : 


THE   CAPTURE. 


8j 


They  understand  us  Pilgrims  !  they, 
Smooth  men  with  rosy  faces, 

Strength's  knots  and  gnarls  all  pared 
away, 
And  varnish  in  their  places  ! 

"  We  had  some  toughness  in  our  grain, 

The  eye  to  rightly  see  us  is 
Not  just  the  one  that  lights  the  brain 

Of  drawing-room  Tyrtxuses  : 
They  talk  about  their  Pilgrim  blood, 

Their  birthright  high  and  holy  !  — 
A  mountain-stream  that  ends  in  mud 

Methinks  is  melancholy. 

"  He  had  stiff  knees,  the  Puritan, 

That  were  not  good  at  bending  ; 
The  homespun  dignity  of  man 

He  thought  was  worth  defending  ; 
He  did  not,  with  his  pinchbeck  ore, 

His  country's  shame  forgotten, 
Gild  Freedom's  coffin  o'er  and  o'er, 

When  all  within  was  rotten. 

"  These  loud  ancestral  boasts  of  yours, 

How  can  they  else  than  vex  us  ? 
Where  were  your  dinner  orators 

When  slavery  grasped  at  Texas? 
Dumb  on  his  knees  was  every  one 

That  now  is  bold  as  Ca?sar,  — 
Mere  pegs  to  hang  an  office  on 

Such  stalwart  men  as  these  are." 

"  Good  sir,"  I  said,  "  you  seem  much 
stirred  ; 

The  sacred  compromises  —  " 
"  Now  God  confound  the  dastard  word! 

My  gall  thereat  arises  : 
Northward  it  hath  this  sense  alone, 

That  you,  your  conscience  blinding, 
Shall  bow  your  fool's  nose  to  the  stone, 

When  slavery  feels  like  grinding. 

"  'Tis  shame  to  see  such  painted  sticks 

In  Vane's  and  Winthrop's  places, 
To  see  your  spirit  of  Seventy-six 

Drag  humbly  in  the  traces, 
With  slavery's  lash  upon  her  back, 

And  herds  of  office-holders 
To  shout  applause,  as,  with  a  crack, 

It  peels  her  patient  shoulders. 

"  Wc  forefathers  to  such  a  rout  !  t- 
No,  by  my  faith  in  God's  word  !  " 
6 


Half  rose  the  ghost,  and  half  drew  out 
The  ghost  of  his  old  broadsword, 

Then  thrust  it  slowly  back  again, 
And  said,  with  reverent  gesture, 

"  No,  Freedom,  no  !  blood  should  not 
stain 
The  hem  of  thy  white  vesture. 

"  I  feel  the  soul  in  me  draw  near 

The  mount  of  prophesying  ; 
In  this  bleak  wilderness  I  hear 

A  John  the  Baptist  crying  ; 
Far  in  the  east  I  see  upleap 

The  streaks  of  first  forewarning, 
And  they  who  sowed  the  light  shall  reap 

The  golden  sheaves  of  morning. 

"Child  of  our  travail  and  our  woe, 

Light  in  our  day  of  sorrow, 
Through  my  rapt  spirit  I  foreknow 

The  glory  of  thy  morrow  ; 
I  hear  great  steps,  that  through  the  shade 

Draw  nigher  still  and  nigher, 
And  voices  call  like  that  which  bade 

The  prophet  come  up  higher." 

I  looked,  no  form  mine  eyes  could  find, 

I  heard  the  red  cock  crowing, 
And   through   my   window-chinks  the 
wind 

A  dismal  tune  was  blowing  ; 
Thought  I,  My  neighbor  Buckingham 

Hath  somewhat  in  him  gritty, 
Some  Pilgrim-stuff  thr.t  hates  all  sham, 

And  he  will  print  my  ditty. 


ON  THE  CAPTURE  OF  CER- 
TAIN FUGITIVE  SLAVES 
NEAR  WASHINGTON. 

Look  on  who  will  in  apathy,  and  stifle 

they  who  can, 
The  sympathies,  the  hopes,  the  words, 

that  make  man  truly  man  ; 
Let  those  whose  hearts  are  dungeoned 

up  with  interest  or  with  ease 
Consent   to   hear   with   quiet   pulse  of 

loathsome  deeds  like  these  ! 

I  first  drew  in  New  England's  air,  and 

from  her  hardy  breast 
Sucked  in  the  tyrant-hating  milk  that 

will  not  let  me  rest ; 


83 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


And  if  my  words  seem  treason  to  the 

dullard  and  the  tame, 
'T  is  but  my  Bay-State  dialect,  —  our 

fathers  spake  the  same  1 

Shame  on  the  costly  mockery  of  piling 
stone  on  stone 

To  those  who  won  our  liberty,  the 
heroes  dead  and  gone, 

While  we  look  coldly  on,  and  see  law- 
shielded  ruffians  slay 

The  men  who  fain  would  win  their  own, 
the  heroes  of  to-day  ! 

Are  we  pledged  to  craven  silence?    O, 

fling  it  to  the  wind, 
The  parchment  wall  that  bars  us  from 

the  least  of  human  kind,  — 
That  makes  us  cringe  and  temporize, 

and  dumbly  stand  at  rest, 
While  Pity's  burning  flood  of  words  is 

red-hot  in  the  breast ! 

Though  we  break  our  fathers'  promise, 

we  have  nobler  duties  first  ; 
The  traitor  to  Humanity  is  the  traitor 

most  accursed  ; 
Man  is  more  than  Constitutions;  better 

rot  beneath  the  sod, 
Than  be  true  to  Church  and  State  while 

we  are  doubly  false  to  God  ! 

We  owe  allegiance  to  the  State  ;  but 

deeper,  truer,  more. 
To  the  sympathies  that  God  hath  set 

within  our  spirit's  core  ;  — 
Our  country  claims  our  fealty  ;  we  grant 

it  so,  but  then 
Before   Man   made  us   citizens,    gTeat 

Nature  made  us  men. 

He's  true  to  God  who's  true  to  man  ; 

wherever  wrong  is  done, 
To  the  humblestand  the  weakest,  'neath 

the  all-beholding  sun, 
That  wrong  is  also  done  to   us;  and 

they  are  slaves  most  base, 
Whose  love  of  right  is  for  themselves, 

and  not  for  all  their  race. 

God  works  for  all.  Ye  cannot  hem  the 
hope  of  being  free 

With  parallels  of  latitude,  with  moun- 
tain-range or  sea. 


Put  golden  padlocks  on  Truth's  lips,  be 

callous  as  ye  will, 
From  soul  to  soul,  o'er  all  the  world, 

leaps  one  electric  thrill. 

Chain  down  your  slaves  with  ignorance, 
ye  cannot  keep  apart, 

With  all  your  craft  of  tyranny,  the  hu- 
man heart  from  heart  : 

When  first  the  Pilgrims  landed  on  the 
Bay  State's  iron  shore, 

The  word  went  forth  that  slavery  should 
one  day  be  no  more. 

Out  from  the  land  of  bondage  'tis  de- 
creed our  slaves  shall  go, 

And  signs  to  us  are  offered,  as  erst  to 
Pharaoh  ; 

If  we  are  blind,  their  exodus,  like  Is- 
rael's of  yore, 

Though  a  Red  Sea  is  doomed  to  be, 
whose  surges  are  of  gore. 

'T  is  ours  to  save  our  brethren,  with 

peace  and  love  to  win 
Their  darkened  hearts  from  error,  ere 

they  harden  it  to  sin  ; 
But  if  before  his  duty  man  with  listless 

spirit  stands, 
Ere  long  the  Great  Avenger  takes  the 

work  from  out  his  hands. 


TO  THE  DANDELION. 

Dear   common  flower,  that  grow'st 
beside  the  way, 
Fringing  the  dusty  road  with  harmless 
cold, 
First  pledge  of  blithesome  May, 
WJiich  children  pluck,  and,  full  of  pride, 
uphold,  .        , 

High-hearted  buccaneers,   o  erjoyed 
that  they 
An  Eldorado  in  the  grass  have  found. 
Which  not  the  rich  earth  s  ample 
round 
May   match    in    wealth,  — thou    art 

more  dear  to  me 
Than     all     the     prouder    summer- 
blooms  may  be. 


TO    THE   DANDELION.— THE   GHOST-SEER. 


83 


Gold  such  as   thine  ne'er  drew   the 
Spanish  prow 
Through  the  primeval  hush  of  Indian 
seas, 
Nor  wrinkled  the  lean  brow 
Of  age,  to  rob  the  lover's  heart  of  ease  ; 
'T  is  the  spring's  largess,  which  she 
scatters  now 
To  rich  and  poor  alike,   with  lavish 
hand, 
Though  most  hearts  never  under- 
stand 
To  take  it  at  God's  value,  but  pass  by 
The  offered  wealth  with  unrewarded 
eye. 

Thou  art  my  tropics  and  mine  Italy  ; 
To  look  at  thee  unlocks  a  warmer  clime  ; 

The  eyes  thou  givest  me 
Are  in  the  heart,  and  heed  not  space  or 
time  : 
Not  in  mid  June  the  golden-cuirassed 
bee 
Feels  a  more  summer-like  warm  ravish- 
ment 
In  the  white  lily's  breezy  tent, 
His  fragrant   Sybaris,  than  I,  when 

first 
From    the    dark  green    thy   yellow 
circles  burst. 

Then  think  I  of  deep  shadows  on  the 
grass,— 
Of  meadows  where  in   sun  the  cattle 
graze, 
Where  as  the  breezes  pass, 
The  gleaming  rushes  lean  a  thousand 
ways, — 
Of  leaves  that  slumber  in  a  cloudy 
mass, 
Or  whiten  in    the  wind,  —  of    waters 
blue 
That  from    the    distance    sparkle 
through 
Some  woodland  gap,  —  and  of  a  sky- 
above, 
Where  one  white  cloud  like  a  stray 
lamb  doth  move. 

My  childhood's  earliest  thoughts  are 
linked  with  thee  ; 
The  sight  of  thee  calls  back  the  robin's 
song, 
Who,  from  the  dark  old  tree  ' 


Beside  the   door,  sang  clearly  all  day 
long, 
And  I,  secure  in  childish  piety. 
Listened  as  if  I  heard  an  angel  sing 
With  news  from  heaven,  which  he 
could  bring 
Fresh  every  day  to  my  untainted  ears 
When  birds  and  Mowers  and  I   were 
happy  peers. 

How  like  a  prodigal  doth  nature  seem, 
When  thou,  for  all  thy  gold,   so  com- 
mon art  ! 
Thou  teachest  me  to  deem 
More  sacredly  of  every  human  heart, 
Since  each  reflects  in  joy  its  scanty 
gleam 
Of  heaven,  and  could  some  wondrous 
secret  show, 
Did  we  but  pay  the  love  we  owe, 
And  with  a  child's  undoubting  wis- 
dom look 
On  all  these  living  pages  of  God's 
book. 


THE   GHOST-SEER. 

Ye  who,  passing  graves  by  night, 
Glance  not  to  the  left  nor  right, 
Lest  a  spirit  should  arise, 
Cold  and  white,  to  freeze  your  eyes, 
Some  weak  phantom,  which  your  doubt 
Shapes  upon  the  dark  without 
From  the  dark  within,  a  guess 
At  the  spirit's  deathlessness, 
Which  ye  entertain  with  fear 
In  your  self-built  dungeon  here. 
Where  ye  sell  your  God-given  lives 
Just  for  gold  to  buy  you  gyves, — 
Ye  without  a  shudder  meet 
In  the  city's  noonday  street, 
Spirits  sadder  and  more  dread 
Than  from  out  the  clay  have  fled, 
Buried,  beyond  hope  of  light, 
In  the  body's  haunted  night ! 

See  ye  not  that  woman  pale  ? 
There  are  bloodhounds  on  her  trail  ! 
Bloodhounds  two,  all  gaunt  and  lean,— 
For  the  soul  their  scent  is  keen,  — 
Want  and  Sin,  and  Sin  is  last,  — 
They  have  followed  far  and  fast ; 


84 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Want  gave  tongue,  and,  at  her  howl, 
Sin  awakened  with  a  growl. 
Ah,  poor  girl  !  she  had  a  right 
To  a  blessing  from  the  light, 
Title-deeds  to  sky  and  earth 
God  gave  to  her  at  her  birth, 
But,  before  they  were  enjoyed, 
Poverty  had  made  them  void, 
And  had  drunk  the  sunshine  up 
From  all  nature's  ample  cup, 
Leaving  her  a  first-born's  share 
In  the  dregs  of  darkness  there. 
Often,  on  the  sidewalk  bleak, 
Hungry,  all  alone,  and  weak, 
She  has  seen,  in  night  and  storm, 
Rooms  o'errlow  with  firelight  warm, 
Which,  outside  the  window-glass, 
Doubled  all  the  cold,  alas  ! 
Till  each  ray  that  on  her  fell 
Stabbed  her  like  an  icicle, 
And  she  almost  loved  the  wail 
Of  the  bloodhounds  on  her  trail. 
Till  the  floor  becomes  her  bier, 
She  shall  feel  their  pantings  near, 
Close  upon  her  very  heels, 
Spite  of  all  the  din  of  wheels  ; 
Shivering  on  her  pallet  poor, 
She  shall  hear  them  at  the  door 
Whine  and  scratch  to  be  let  in, 
Sister  bloodhounds,  Want  and  Sin  1 

Hark  !  that  rustle  of  a  dress, 

Stiff  with  lavish  costliness  ! 

Here  comes  one  whose  cheek   would 

flush 
But  to  have  her  garment  brush 
'Gainst  the  girl  whose  fingers  thin 
Wove  the  weary  broidery  in, 
Bending  backward  from  her  toil, 
Lest  her  tears  the  silk  might  soil, 
And,  in  midnight's  chill  and  murk, 
Stitched  her  life  into  the  work, 
Shaping  from  her  bitter  thought 
Heart's-ease  and  forget-me-not, 
Satirizing  her  despair 
With  the  emblems  woven  there. 
Little  doth  the  wearer  heed 
Of  the  heart-break  in  the  brede  ; 
A  hyena  by  her  side 
Skulks,  down-looking,  —  it  is  Pride. 
He  digs  for  her  in  the  earth, 
Where  lie  all  her  claims  of  birth, 
With  his  foul  paws  rooting  o'er 
Some  long-buried  ancestor, 


Who,  perhaps,  a  statue  won 
By  the  ill  deeds  he  had  done, 
By  the  innocent  blood  he  shed, 
By  the  desolation  spread 
Over  happy  villages, 
Blotting  out  the  smile  of  peace. 

There  walks  Judas,  he  who  sold 
Yesterday  his  Lord  for  gold, 
Sold  God's  presence  in  his  heart 
For  a  proud  step  in  the  mart; 
He  hath  dealt  in  flesh  and  blood,  — 
At  the  bank  his  name  is  good, 
At  the  bank,  and  only  there, 
'T  is  a  marketable  ware. 
In  his  eyes  that  stealthy  gleam 
Was  not  learned  of  sky  or  stream, 
But  it  has  the  cold,  hard  glint 
Of  new  dollars  from  the  mint. 
Open  now  your  spirit's  eyes, 
Look  through  that  poor  clay  disguise 
Which  has  thickened,  day  by  day, 
Till  it  keeps  all  light  at  bay, 
And  his  soul  in  pitchy  gloom 
Gropes  about  its  narrow  tomb, 
From  whose  dank  and  slimy  walls 
Drop  by  drop  the  horror  falls. 
Look  !  a  serpent  lank  and  cold 
Hugs  his  spirit  fold  on  fold  ; 
From  his  heart,  all  day  and  night, 
It  doth  suck  God's  blessed  light. 
Drink  it  will,  and  drink  it  must, 
Till  the  cup  holds  naught  but  dust ; 
All  day  long  he  hears  it  hiss, 
Writhing  in  its  fiendish  bliss  ; 
All  night  long  he  sees  its  eyes 
Flicker  with  foul  ecstasies, 
As  the  spirit  ebbs  away 
Into  the  absorbing  clay. 

Who  is  he  that  skulks,  afraid 
Of  the  trust  he  has  betrayed, 
Shuddering  if  perchance  a  gleam 
Of  old  nobleness  should  stream 
Through  the  pent,  unwholesome  room, 
Where    his    shrunk    soul    cowers    in 

gloom,  — 
Spirit  sad  beyond  the  rest 
By  more  instinct  for  the  best? 
'T  is  a  poet  who  was  sent 
For  a  bad  world's  punishment, 
By  compelling  it  to  see 
Golden  glimpses  of  To  Be, 
By  compelling  it  to  hear 


THE   GHOST-SEER.— STUDIES  FOR    TWO  HEADS. 


85 


Songs  that  prove  the  angels  near  ; 

Who  was  sent  to  be  the  tongue 

Of  the  weak  and  spirit-wrung, 

Whence  the  fiery-winged  Despair 

In  men's  shrinking  eyes  might  flare. 

'T  is  our  hope  doth  fashion  us 

To  base  use  or  glorious  : 

He  who  might  have  been  a  lark 

<  >t  Truth's  morning,  from  the  dark 

Raining  down  melodious  hope 

Of  a  freer,  broader  scope, 

Aspirations,  prophecies, 

Of  the  spirit's  full  sunrise, 

Chose  to  be  a  bird  of  night. 

Which,  with  eyes  refusing  light, 

Hooted  from  some  hollow  tree 

Of  the  world's  idolatry. 

'T  is  his  punishment  to  hear 

Flutterings  of  pinions  near, 

And  his  own  vain  wings  to  feel 

Drooping  downward  to  his  heel, 

All  their  grace  and  import  lost, 

Burdening  his  weary  ghost : 

Ever  walking  by  his  side 

He  must  see  his  angel  guide, 

Who  at  intervals  doth  turn 

Looks  on  him  so  sadly  stern, 

With  such  ever-new  surprise 

Of  hushed  anguish  in  her  eyes, 

That  it  seems  the  light  of  day 

From  around  him  shrinks  away, 

Or  drops  blunted  from  the  wall 

Built  around  him  by  his  fall. 

Then  the  mountains,  whose  white  peaks 

Catch  the  morning's  earliest  streaks, 

He  must  see,  where  prophets  sit, 

Turning  east  their  faces  lit, 

Whence,  with  footsteps  beautiful, 

To  the  earth,  yet  dim  and  dull, 

They  the  gladsome  tidings  bring 

Of  the  sunlight's  hastening  : 

Never  can  these  hills  of  bliss 

Be  o'erclimbed  by  feet  like  his  ! 

But  enough  !     O,  do  not  dare 
From  the  next  the  veil  to  tear, 
Woven  of  station,  trade,  or  dress. 
More  obscene  than  nakedness, 
Wherewith  plausible  culture  drapes 
Fallen  Nature's  myriad  shapes  ! 
Let  us  rather  love  to  mark 
How  the  unextinguished  spark 
Will  shine  through  the  thin  disguise 
Of  our  custums,  pomps,  and  lies, 


And,  not  seldom  blown  to  flame, 
Vindicate  its  ancient  claim. 

1844. 


STUDIES   FOR  TWO   HEADS. 


Some  sort  of  heart  I  know  is  hers,  — 
I  chanced  to  feel  her  pulse  one  night ; 

A  brain  she  has  that  never  errs, 
And  yet  is  never  nobly  right ; 

It  does  not  leap  to  great  results, 
But,  in  some  corner  out  of  sight, 
Suspects  a  spot  of  latent  blight, 
And,  o'er  the  impatient  infinite, 

She  bargains,  haggles,  and  consults. 

Her  eye,  —  it  seems  a  chemic  test 

And  drops  upon  you  like  an  acid  ; 
It  bites  you  with  unconscious  zest, 

So  clear  and  bright,  so  coldly  placid  ; 
It  holds  you  quietly  aloof, 

It  holds,  —  and  yet  it  does  not  win 
you  ; 
It  merely  puts  you  to  the  proof 

And  sorts  what  qualities  are  in  you  ; 
It  smiles,  but  never  brings  you  nearer, 

Itlights,  — hernature draws  not  nigh; 
'T  is  but  that  yours  is  growing  clearer 

To  her  assays  ;  —  yes,  try  and  try, 

You  '11  get  no  deeper  than  her  eye. 

There,  you  are  classified  :  she  's  gone 

Far,  far  away  into  herself; 
Each  with  its  Latin  label  on, 
Your  poor  components,  one  by  one, 

Are  laid  upon  their  proper  shelf 
In  her  compact  and  ordered  mind, 
And  what  of  you  is  left  behind 
Is  no  more  to  her  than  the  wind  ; 
In  that  clear  brain,  which,day  and  night, 

No  movement  of  the  heart  e'er  jos- 
tles, 
Her  friends   are   ranged   on  left    and 

right,—  .     . 

Here,  silex,  hornblende,  siemte  ; 

There,  animal  remains  and  fossils. 

And  yet,  O  subtile  analyst, 

That  canst  each  property  detect 

Of  mood  or  grain,  that  canst  untwist 
Each  tangled  skein  of  intellect, 

And  with  thy  scalpel  eyes  lay  bare 


86 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Each    mental    nerve    more  fine    than 
air,  — 

O  brain  exact,  that  in  thy  scales 
Canst  weigh  the  sun  and  never  err, 

For  once  thy  patient  science  fails, 

One  problem  still  defies  thy  art ;  — 
Thou  never  canst  compute  for  her 
The  distance  and  diameter 

Of  any  simple  human  heart. 


Hear  him  but  speak,  and  you  will  feel 
The  shadows  of  the  Portico 

Over  your  tranquil  spirit  steal, 
To  modulate  all  joy  and  woe 
To  one  subdued,  subduing  glow  : 

Above  our  squabbling  business-hours, 

Tike  Phidian  Jove's,  his  beauty  lowers, 

His  nature  satirizes  ours  ; 
A  form  and  front  of  Attic  grace, 
He  shames  the  higgling  market-place, 

And  dwarfs  our  more  mechanic  powers. 

What  throbbing  verse  can  fitly  render 
That  face,  —  so  pure,  so  trembling-ten- 
der ? 

Sensation  glimmers  through  its  rest, 
It  speaks  unmanacled  by  words, 

As  full  of  motion  as  a  nest 
That  palpitates  with  unfledged  birds  ; 

'T  is  likest  to  Bethesda's  stream, 
Forewarned   through    all    its   thrilling 
springs, 

White  with  the  angel's  coming  gleam, 
And  rippled  with  his  fanning  wings. 

Hear  him  unfold  his  plots  and  plans, 
And  larger  destinies  seem  man's  ; 
You  conjure  from  his  glowing  face 
The  omen  of  a  fairer  race : 
With  one  grand  trope  he  boldly  spans 
The  gulf  wherein  so  many  fall, 
'Twixt  possible  and  actual ; 
His  first  swift  word,  talaria-shod, 
Exuberant  with  conscious  God, 
Out  of  the  choir  of  planets  blots 
The  present  earth  with  all  its  spots. 

Himself  unshaken  as  the  sky, 

His  words,  like  whirlwinds,  spin  on  high 

Systems  and  creeds  pellmell  together ; 
'T  is  strange  as  to  a  deaf  man's  eye, 
While  trees  uprooted  splinter  by, 

The  dumb  turmoil  of  stormy  weather; 

Less  of  iconoclast  than  shaper, 


His  spirit,  safe  behind  the  reach 
Of  the  tornado  of  his  speech, 

Burns  calmly  as  a  glowworm's  taper. 

So  great  in  speech,  but,  ah !  in  act 

So  overrun  with  vermin  troubles, 
The  coarse,  sharp-cornered,  ugly  fact 

Of  life  collapses  all  his  bubbles  : 
Had  he  but  lived  in  Plato's  day, 

He  might,  unless  my  fancy  errs, 
Have  shared  that  golden  voice's  sway 

O'er  barefooted  philosophers. 
Our  nipping  climate  hardly  suits 
The  ripening  of  ideal  fruits  : 
His  theories  vanquish  us  all  summer, 
But    winter    makes    him    dumb    and 

dumber  ; 
To  see  him  'mid  life's  needful  things 

Is  something  painfully  bewildering ; 
He  seems  an  angel  with  dipt  wings 

Tied  to  a  mortal  wife  and  children, 
And  by  a  brother  seraph  taken 
In  the  act  of  eating  eggs  and  bacon. 
Like  a  clear  fountain,  his  desire 

Exults  and  leaps  toward  the  light, 
In  every  drop  it  says  "  Aspire  !  " 

Striving  for  more  ideal  height ; 
And  as  the  fountain,  falling  thence, 

Crawls  baffled  through  the  common 
gutter, 
So,  from  his  speech's  eminence, 
He  shrinks  into  the  present  tense, 

Unkinged  by  foolish  bread  and  butter. 

Yet  smile  not,  worldling,  for  in  deeds 

Not  all  of  life  that 's  brave  and  wise  is ; 
He  strews  an  ampler  future's  seeds, 

'T  is  your  fault  if  no  harvest  rises  ; 
Smooth  back  the  sneer  ;  for  is  it  naught 

That  all  he  is  and  has  is  Beauty's  ? 
By    soul    the    soul's    gains    must    bs 

wrought. 
The  Actual  claims  our  coarser  thought, 

The  Ideal  hath  its  higher  duties. 


ON    A   PORTRAIT   OF    DANTE 
BY    GIOTTO. 

Can  this  be  thou  who,  lean  and  pale, 

With  such  immitigable  eye 
Didst  look  upon  those  writhing  souls  in 
bale, 

And  note  each  vengeance,  and  pass  by 


ON   THE   DEA  TH  OF  A    FRIEND'S  CHILD. 


87 


Unmoved,    save    when   thy   heart   by 

chance 
Cast  backward  one  forbidden  glance, 
And  saw  Francesca,  with  child's  glee, 
Subdue   and   mount   thy   wild-horse 
knee 
And  with  proud  hands  control  its  fiery 
prance  ? 

With   half-drooped   lids,   and  smooth, 
round  brow, 

And  eye  remote,  that  inly  sees 
Fair  Beatrice's  spirit  wandering  now 

In  some  sea  lulled  Hesperides, 
Thou  movest  through  the  jarring  street, 
Secluded  from  the  noise  of  feet 

By  her  gift-blossom  in  thy  hand, 

Thy    branch    of    palm    from    Holy 
Land  ;  — 
No  trace  is  here  of  ruin's  fiery  sleet. 

Yet  there  is  something  round  thy  lips 
That  prophesies  the  coming  doom, 
The  soft,  gray  herald-shadow  ere  the 
eclipse 
Notches  the  perfect  disk  with  gloom  ; 
A  something  that  would  banish  thee, 
And  thine  untamed  pursuer  be, 

From  men  and  their  unworthy  fates, 
Though  Florence  had  not  shut  her 
gates, 
And  Grief  had  loosed  her  clutch  and  let 
thee  free. 

Ah  !  he  who  follows  fearlessly 

The  beckonings  of  a  poet-heart 
Shall  wander,  and  without  the  world's 
decree, 
A  banished  man  in  field  and  mart  ; 
Harder  than  Florence'  walls  the  bar 
Which  with  deaf  sternness  holds  him  far 
From  home  and  friends,  till  death's 

release, 
And  makes  his  only  prayer  for  peace, 
Like  thine,  scarred  veteran  of  a  lifelong 
war ! 


ON     THE     DEATH     OF     A 
FRIEND'S    CHILD. 

Death  never  came  so  nigh  to  me  be- 
fore, 

Nor  showed  me  his  mild  lace  :  oft  had 
I  mused 


Of  calm  and  peace  and  deep  forgetful- 
ness, 

Of  folded  hands,  closed  eyes,  and  heart 
at  rest, 

And  slumber  sound  beneath  a  flowery 
turf, 

Of  faults  forgotten,  and  an  inner  place 

Kept  sacred  for  us  in  the  heart  of 
friends  ; 

But  these  were  idle  fancies,  satisfied 

With  the  mere  husk  of  this  great  mys- 
tery. 

And  dwelling  in  the  outward  shows  of 
things. 

Heaven  is  not  mounted  to  on  wings  of 
dreams, 

Nor  doth  the  unthankful  happiness  of 
youth 

Aim  thitherward,  but  floats  from  bloom 
to  bloom, 

With  earth's  warm  patch  of  sunshine 
well  content  : 

'T  is  sorrow  builds  the  shining  ladder  up. 

Whose  golden  rounds  are  our  calami- 
ties, 

Whereon  our  firm  feet  planting,  nearer 
God 

The  spirit  climbs,  and  hath  its  eyes  un- 
sealed. 

True  is  it  that  Death's  face  seems  stern 
and  cold, 

When  he  is  sent  to  summon  those  we 
love, 

But  all  God's  angels  come  to  us  dis- 
guised ; 

Sorrow  and  sickness,  poverty  and  death. 

One  after  other  lift  their  frowning 
masks, 

And  we  behold  the  seraph's  face  be- 
neath, 

All  radiant  with  the  glory  and  the  calm 

Of  having  looked  upon  the  front  of 
God. 

With  every  anguish  of  our  earthly  part 

The  spirit's  sight  grows  clearer ;  this 
was  meant 

When  Jesus  touched  the  blind  man's 
lids  with  clay. 

Life  is  the  jailer,  Death  the  angel  sent 

To  draw  the  unwilling  bolts  and  set  us 
free. 

He  flings  not  ope  the  ivory  gate  of 
Rest,  — 


88 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Only  the  fallen  spirit  knocks  at  that,  — 
But  to  benigner  regions  beckons  us, 
To  destinies  of  more  rewarded  toil. 
In  the  hushed  chamber,  sitting  by  the 

dead, 
It  grates  on  us  to  hear  the  flood  of  life 
Whirl  rustling  onward,  senseless  of  our 

The  bee   hums  on  ;  around   the  blos- 
somed vine 
Whirs  the   light    humming-bird ;    the 

cricket  chirps  ; 
The  locust's  shrill  aiarum   stings   the 

ear; 
Hard  by,  the  cock  shouts  lustily  ;  from 

farm  to  farm, 
His  cheery  brothers,  telling  of  the  sun, 
Answer,  till  far  away  the  joyance  dies  : 
We  never  knew  before  how  God  had 

filled 
The    summer  air  with    happy  living 

sounds; 
All  round  us  seems  an  overplus  of  life, 
And  yet  the  one  dear  heart  lies  cold  and 

still. 
It  is  most  strange,  when  the  great  mir- 

Hath  for  our  sakes  been  done,  when 
we  have  had 

Our  inwardest  experience  of  God, 

When  with  his  presence  still  the  room 
expands, 

And  is  awed  after  him,  that  naught  is 
changed, 

That  Nature's  face  looks  unacknowl- 
edginc;, 

And  the  mad  world  still  dances  heed- 
less on 

After  its  butterflies,  and  gives  no  sign. 

'T  is  hard  at  first  to  see  it  all  aright : 

In  vain  Faith  blows  her  trump  to  sum- 
mon back 

Her  scattered  troop:  yet,  through  the 
clouded  glass 

Of  our  own  bitter  tears,  we  learn  to 
look 

Undazzled  on   the  kindness  of  God  s 
face  ; 

Earth  is  too  dark,  and   Heaven  alone 
shines  through. 

It  is  no  little  thing,  when  a  fresh  soul 
And  a  fresh  heart,  with  their  unmeas- 
ured scope 


For  good,   not  gravitating    earthward 

yet'    •    ,•  ■  j 

But  circling  in  diviner  periods, 
Are  sent  into  the  world, — no  little  thing, 
When  this  unbounded  possibility 
Into  the  outer  silence  is  withdrawn. 
Ah,  in  this  world,  where  every  guiding 

thread 
Ends  suddenly  in  the  one  sure  centre, 

death, 
The  visionary  hand  of  Might-have-been 
Alone  can  fill  Desire's  cup  to  the  brim  I 

How  changed,  dear  friend,  are  thy  part 

and  thy  child's  ! 
He  bends  above   thy  cradle   now,  or 

holds 
His  warning  finger  out  to  be  thy  guide  ; 
Thou  art  the  nursling  now  ;  he  watches 

thee 
Slow  learning,  one  by  one,  the   secret 

things 
Which  are  to  him  used  sights  ol  every 

day  ; 
He  smiles  to  see  thy  wondering  glances 

con 
The  grass  and  pebbles  of  the  spint- 

world, 
To  thee  miraculous  ;  and  he  will  teach 
Thy  knees  their  due  observances  of 

prayer. 
Children  are  God's  apostles,  day  by  day 
Sent  forth  to  preach  of  love,  and  hope, 

and  peace  ;  . 

Nor  hath  thy  babe  his  mission  left  un- 
done. . 
To  me,  at  least,  his  going  hence  hath 

given 
Serener  thoughts   and    nearer  to  the 

And  opened  a  new  fountain  in  myheart 
For  thee,  my  friend,  and  all :  and  O, 

if  Death 
More  near  approaches  meditates,  and 

clasps 
Even  now  some  dearer,  more  reluctant 

hand,  . 

God,  strengthen  thou  my  faith,  that  I 

may  see  .    '       . 

That  'tis  thine  angel,  who,  with  loving 

Unto  the  service  of  the  inner  shrine. 
Doth  waken  thy  beloved  with  a  kiss 

1844. 


EURYDICE.—SUE   CAME  AND   WENT. 


89 


EURYDICE. 

Heaven's  cup  held  down  to  me  I  drain, 
The  sunshine    mounts   and  spurs  my 

brain  ; 
Bathing  in  grass,  with  thirsty  eye 
1  suck  the  last  drop  of  the  sky  ; 
With  each  hot  sense  I  draw  to  the  lees 
The  quickening  out-door  influences, 
And  empty  to  each  radiant  comer 
A  supernaculum  of  summer  : 
Not,  Bacchus,  all  thy  grosser  juice 
Could  bring  enchantment  so  profuse, 
Though  for  its  press  each  grape-bunch 

had 
The  white  feet  of  an  Oread. 

Through  our  coarse  art  gleam,  new  and 

then, 
The  features  of  angelic  men  : 
'Neath  the  lewd  Satyr's  veiling  paint 
Glows  forth  the  Sibyl,  Muse,  or  Saint  ; 
The  dauber's  botch  no  more  obscures 
The  mighty  master's  portraitures. 
And  who  can  say  what  luckier  beam 
The  hidden  glory  shall  redeem, 
Foi    what  chance  clod  the  soil   may 

wait 
To  stumble  on  its  nobler  fate, 
Or  why,  to  his  unwarned  abode, 
Still  by  surprises  comes  the  God? 
Some  moment,  nailed  on  sorrow's  cross, 
May  meditate  a  whole  youth's  loss, 
Some  windfall  joy,  we  know  not  whence, 
Redeem  a  lifetime's  rash  expense, 
And,  suddenly  wise,  the  soul  may  mark, 
Stripped  of  their  simulated  dark, 
Mountains  of  gold  that  pierce  the  sky, 
Girdling  its  valleyed  poverty. 

I  feel  ye,  childhood's  hopes,  return, 
With  olden  heats  my  pulses  burn,  — 
Mine  be  the  self-forgetting  sweep, 
The  torrent  impulse  swift  and  wild, 
Wherewith  Taghkanic's  rockborn  child 
Dares  gloriously  the  dangerous  leap, 
And,  in  his  sky-descended  mood, 
Transmutes  each  drop  of  sluggish  blood, 
By  touch  of  bravery's  simple  wand, 
To  amethyst  and  diamond, 
Proving  himself  no  bastard  slip, 
But  the  true  granite-cradled  one, 
Nursed  with  the  rock's  primeval  drip, 
The  cloud-embracing  mountain's  son  ! 


Prayer  breathed   in   vain !    no  wish's 

sway 
Rebuilds  the  vanished  yesterday  ; 
For  plated  wares  of  Sheffield  stamp 
We  gave  the  old  Aladdin's  lamp  ; 
'T  is  we  are  changed  :  ah,  whither  went 
That  undesigned  abandonment. 
That  wise,  unquestioning  content, 
Which  could  erect  its  microcosm 
Out  of  a  weed's  neglected  blossom, 
Could  call  up  Arthur  and  his  peers 
By  a  low  moss's  clump  of  spears, 
Or,  in  its  shingle  trireme  launched, 
Where   Charles  in    some  green   inlet 

branched, 
Could  venture  for  the  golden  fleece 
And  dragon-watched  Hesperides, 
Or,  from  its  ripple-shattered  fate, 
Ulysses'  chances  re-create  ? 

When,  heralding  life's  every  phase, 
There  glowed  a  goddess-veiling  haze, 
A  plenteous,  forewarning  grace, 
Like  that  more  tender  dawn  that  flies 
Before  the  full  moon's  ample  rise  ? 
Methinks  thy  parting  glory  shines 
Through  yonder  grove  of  singing  pines ; 
At  that  elm-vista's  end  I  trace 
Dimly  thy  sad  leave-taking  face, 
Eurydice !   Eurydice  ! 
The  tremulous  leaves  repeat  to  me 
Eurydice  !  Eurydice  I 
No  gloomier  Orcus  swallows  thee 
Than  the  unclouded  sunset's  glow; 
Thine  is  at  least  Elysian  woe  ; 
Thou  hast  Good's  natural  decay, 
And  fadest  like  a  star  away 
Into  an  atmosphere  whose  shine 
With  fuller  day  o'ermasters  thine, 
Entering  defeat  as  't  were  a  shrine  ; 
For  us,  —  we  turn  life's  diary  o'er 
To  find  but  one  word,  —  Nevermore. 

1845. 


SHE   CAME   AND   WENT. 

As  a  twig  trembles,  which  a  bird 

Lights  on  to  sing,  then  leaves  un- 
bent, 
So     is     my     memory     thrilled     and 
stirred  ;  — 
I  only  know  she  came  and  went. 


go 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


As  clasps  some  lake,  by  gusts  unriven, 
The   blue   dome's  measureless  con- 
tent, 
So  my  soul  held  that  moment's  heav- 
en ;  — 
I  only  know  she  came  and  went. 

As,  at  one  bound,  our  swift  spring 
heaps 

The  orchards  full  of  bloom  and  scent, 
So  clove  her  May  my  wintry  sleeps  ;  — 

I  only  know  she  came  and  went. 

An  angel  stood  and  met  my  gaze, 
Through  the  low  doorway  of  my  tent; 

The  tent  is  struck,  the  vision  stays  ;  — 
1  only  know  she  came  and  went. 

O,  when  the  room  grows  slowly  dim, 
And  life's  last  oil  is  nearly  spent, 

One  gush  of  light  these  eyes  will  brim, 
Only  to  think  she  came  and  went 


THE   CHANGELING. 

I  had  a  little  daughter, 

And  she  was  given  to  me 
To  lead  me  gently  backward 

To  the  Heavenly  Father's  knee, 
That  I,  by  the  force  of  nature, 

Might  in  some  dim  wise  divine 
The  depth  of  his  infinite  patience 

To  this  wayward  soul  of  mine. 

I  know  not  how  others  saw  her, 

But  to  me  she  was  wholly  fair, 
And  the  light  of  the  heaven  she  came 
from 

Still   lingered  and  gleamed 
hair  ; 
For  it  was  as  wavy  and  golden, 

And  as  many  changes  took, 
As  the  shadows  of  sun-gilt  ripples 

On  the  yellow  bed  of  a  brook. 

To  what  can  I  liken  her  smiling 
Upon  me,  her  kneeling  lover, 

How  it  leaped  from  her  lips  to  her  eye- 
lids, 
And  dimpled  her  wholly  over, 

Till  her  outstretched  hands  smiled  also, 
And  I  almost  seemed  to  see 


her 


The  very  heart  of  her  mother 

Sending   suu   through   her  veins  t& 
me  ! 

She  had  been  with  us  scarce  a  twelve- 
month, 

And  it  hardly  seemed  a  day, 
When  a  troop  of  wandering  angels 

Stole  my  little  daughter  away  ; 
Or  perhaps  those  heavenly  Zingari 

But  loosed  the  hampering  strings, 
And  when  they  had  opened  her  cage- 
door, 

My  little  bird  used  her  wings. 

But  they  left  in  her  stead  a  changeling, 

A  little  angel  child, 
That  saems  like  her  bud  in  full  blossom, 

And  smiles  as  she  never  smiled  : 
When  I  wake  in  the  morning,  I  see  it 

Where  she  always  used  to  lie, 
And  1  feel  as  weak  as  a  violet 

Alone  'neath  the  awful  sky. 

As  weak,  yet  as  trustful  also  ; 

For  the  whole  year  long  I  see 
All  the  wonders  of  faithful  Nature 

Still  worked  for  the  love  of  me  ; 
Winds  wander,  and  dews  drip  earth- 
ward, 

Rain  falls,  suns  rise  and  set, 
Earth  whirls,  and  all  but  to  prosper 

A  poor  little  violet- 

This  child  is  not  mine  as  the  first  was, 

I  cannot  sing  it  to  rest, 
I  cannot  lift  it  up  fatherly 

And  bliss  it  upon  my  breast  : 
Yet  it  lies  in  my  little  one's  cradle 

And  sits  in  my  little  one's  chair, 
And  the  light  of  the  heaven  she  'sgone 
to 

Transfigures  its  golden  hair. 


THE   PIONEER. 

What  man  would  live  coffined  with 

brick  and  stone, 
Imprisoned  from  the  influences  of 

air, 
And   cramped    with    selfish    land 

marks  everywhere, 


THE   PIONEER.— LONGING. 


9« 


When  all  before  him  stretches,  furrow- 
less  and  lone, 
The  unmapped  prairie  none  can  fence 
or  own  ? 

What  man  would  read  and  read  the 
selfsame  faces, 
And,  like  the  marbles  which  the 

windmill  grinds, 
Rub  smooth  forever  with  the  same 
smooth  minds, 
This  year  retracing  last  year's,  every 
year's,  dull  traces. 
When  there  are  woods  and  un-man- 
stifled  places? 

What    man    o'er    one    old    thought 
would  pore  and  pore, 
Shut  like  a  book  between  its  cov- 
ers thin 
For  every  fool  to  leave  his  dog's- 
ears  in, 
When  solitude  is  his,  and  God  forever- 
more, 
Just  for  the  opening  of  a  paltry  door  ? 

What  man  would  watch  life's  oozy 
element 
Creep  Letheward  forever,  when  he 

might 
Down   some   great   river  drift  be- 
yond men's  sight, 
To    where     the   undethroned    forest's 
royal  tent 
Broods  with  its  hush  o'er  half  a  con- 
tinent ? 

What  man  with  men  would  push  and 
altercate. 
Piecing  out    crooked    means    for 

crooked  ends, 
When  he  can   have  the  skies  and 
woods  for  friends, 
Snatch  back  the  rudder  of  his  undis- 
mantled  fate. 
And  in  himself  be  ruler,  church,  and 
state  > 

Cast  leaves  and  feathers  rot  in  last 

year's  nest, 
The  winged  brood,  flown  thence, 

new  dwellings  plan  ; 
The  serf  of  his  own  Past  is  not  a 

man ; 


To  change  and  change  is  life,  to  move 
and  never  rest  ;  — 
Not  what  we  are,  but  what  we  hope, 
is  best. 

The  wild,  free  woods  make  no  man 
halt  or  blind  ; 
Cities  rob  men  of  eyes  and  hands 

and  feet, 
Patching  one  whole  of  many  in- 
complete ; 
The  general  preys  upon  the  individual 
mind, 
And   each  alone  is  helpless  as  the 
wind. 

Each  man  is  some  man's  servant ; 
every  soul 
Is  by  some  other's  presence  quite 

discrowned  ; 
Each  owes  the  next  through  all  the 
imperfect  round, 
Yet  not  with  mutual  help;  each  man  is 
his  own  goal, 
And  the  whole  earth  must  stop  to  pay 
his  toll. 

Here,  life  the  undiminished  man  de- 
mands ; 
New  faculties  stretch  out  to  meet 

new  wants ; 
What   Nature  asks,  that   Nature 
also  grants  ; 
Here  man  is  lord,  not  drudge,  of  eyes 
and  feet  and  hands, 
And  to  his  life  is  knit  with  hourly 
bands. 

Come  out,  then,  from  the  old  thoughts 
and  old  ways, 
Before  you  harden  to  a  crystal  cold 
Which  the  new  life  can  shatter,  but 
not  mould  ; 
Freedom  for  you  still  waits,  still,  look- 
ing backward,  stays, 
But    widens    still    the    irretnevable 
space. 


LONGING. 

Of  all  the  myriad  moods  of  mind    m 
That  through  the  soul  come  thronging, 

Which  one  was  e'er  so  dear,  so  kind, 
So  beautiful  as  Longing  f 


9* 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


The  thing  we  long  for,  that  we  are 
For  one  transcendent  moment, 

Before  the  Present  poor  and  bare 
Can  make  its  sneering  comment. 

Still,  through  our  paltry  stir  and  strife, 

Glows  down  the  wished  Ideal, 
And  Longing  moulds  in  clay  what  Life 

Carves  in  the  marble  Real ; 
To  let  the  new  life  in,  we  know, 

Desire  must  ope  the  portal  ;  — 
Perhaps  the  longing  to  be  so 

Helps  make  the  soul  immortal. 

Longing  is  God's  fresh  heavenward  will 

With  our  poor  earthward  striving  ; 
We  quench  it  that  we  may  be  still 

Content  with  merely  living  : 
But,  would  we  learn  that  heart's  full 
scope 

Which  we  are  hourly  wronging, 
Our  lives  must  climb  from  hope  to  hope 

And  realize  our  longing. 

Ah  !  let  us  hope  that  to  our  praise 

Good  God  not  only  reckons 
The  moments  when  we  tread  his  ways, 

But  when  the  spirit  beckons,  — 
That  some  slight  good  is  also  wrought 

Beyond  self-satisfaction, 
When  we  are  simply  good  in  thought, 

Howe'er  we  fail  in  action. 


ODE   TO   FRANCE. 

FEBRUARY,   1848. 


As,  flake  by  flake,  the  beetling  ava- 
lanches 
Build   up   their    imminent  crags    of 
noiseless  snow, 
Till  some  chance   thrill  the   loosened 
ruin  launches 
And  the  blind  havoc  leaps  unwarned 
below, 
So  grew  and  gathered  through  the  silent 
years 
The  madness  of  a  People,   wrong  by 
wrong. 
There  seemed  no  strength  in  the  dumb 
toiler's  tears,  — 
No  strength  in  suffering; — but  the 
Past  was  strong  : 


The  brute  despair  of  trampled  centuries 
Leaped  up  with  one  hoarse  yell  and 

snapped  its  bands, 
Groped   for    its    right    with    horny, 
callous  hands, 
And  stared  around  for  God  with  blood- 
shot eyes. 
What  wonder  if  those  palms  were  all 
too  hard 
For  nice  distinctions,  —•  if  that  mxnad 
throng  — 
They  whose  thick  atmosphere  no  bard 
Had  shivered  with  the  lightning  of  his 
song, 
Brutes  with  the  memories  and  desires 

of  men, 
Whose  chronicles  were  writ  with  iron 
pen, 
In  the  crooked  shoulder  and  th« 
forehead  low  — 
Set  wrong  to  balance  wrong, 
And  physicked  woe  with  woe  ? 


They  did  as  they  were   taught ;   n,- 1 

theirs  the  blame, 
If  men  who  scattered  firebrands  reape  \ 
the  flame  : 
They  trampled  Peace  beneath  the\r 
savage  feet, 
And  by  her  golden  tresses  drew 
Mercy  along  the  pavement  of  th  t 
street. 
O  Freedom  !    Freedom  !  is  thy  morn- 
ing-dew 
So  gory  red  ?    Alas,  thy  light  had 

ne'er 
Shone  in  upon  the  chaos  of  their 
lair! 
They  reared  to  thee  such  symbol  as 
they  knew, 
And  worshipped  it  with  flame  and 

blood, 
A  Vengeance,   axe  in  hand,  that 
stood 
Holding  a   tyrant's   head   up  by    the 
clotted  hair. 


What  wrongs  the  Oppressor  suffered, 
these  we  know  ; 
These  have  found  piteous  voice  ia 
song  and  prose  ; 


ODE    TO  FRANCE. 


93 


But  for  the  Oppressed,  their  darkness 
and  their  woe. 
Their     grinding      centuries,  —  what 
Muse  had  those  ? 
Though  hall  and  palace  had  nor  eyes 
nor  ears, 
Hardening  a  people's  heart  to  sense- 
less stone, 
Thou  knowest   them,    O   Earth,   that 
drank  their  tears, 
0  Heaven,  that  heard  their  inarticu- 
late moan  ! 
They  noted  down  their  fetters,  link  by 

link  ; 
Coarse  was  the  hand  that  scrawled,  and 
red  the  ink ; 
Rude  was  their  score,  as  suits  un- 
lettered men,  — 
Wotched  with  a  headsman's  axe  upon 

a  block : 
What  marvel  if,  when  came  the  aveng- 
ing shock, 
'T  was  Ate,   not  Urania,   held  the 
pen  ? 


With  eye  averted  and   an  anguished 
frown, 
Loathingly  glides  the  Muse  through 
scenes  of  strife, 
Where,  like  the  heart  of  Vengeance  up 
and  down, 
Throbs  in  its  framework  the  blood- 
muffled  knife  : 
Blow  are  the  steps  of  Freedom,  but  her 
feet 
Turn  never  backward :  hers  no  bloody 
glare  ; 
Her  light  is  calm,   and  innocent,  and 
sweet, 
And  where  it  enters  there  is  no  de- 
spair : 
Not    first    on    palace    and    cathedral 

spire 
Quivers  and  gleams  that  unconsuming 
fire  ; 
While  these  stand  black  against  her 
morning  skies, 
The  peasant  sees  it  leap  from  peak  to 
peak 
Along  his  hills ;  the  craftsman's  burn- 
ing eyes 
Own  with  cool  tears  its  influence  moth- 
er-meek ; 


It  lights  the  poet's  heart  up  like  a 

star  ;  — 
Ah  !  while  the  tyrant  deemed  it  still 
afar, 
And  twined  with   golden    threads  his 
futile  snare, 
That  swift,  convicting  glow  all  round 
him  ran  ; 
'T  was  close  beside  him  there, 
Sunrise  whose  Memnon  is  the  soul  of 
man. 


O  Broker-King,  is  this  thy  wisdom's 
fruit  ? 
A  dynasty  plucked  out  as  't  were  ? 

weed 
Grown  rankly  in  a  night,  that  leaves 
no  seed  ! 
Could  eighteen  years  strike  down  no 
deeper  root? 
But  now  thy  vulture  eye  was  turned 
on  Spain,  — 
A   shout   from   Paris,   and   thy  crown 
falls  off, 
Thy  race  has  ceased  to  reign, 
And  thou  become  a  fugitive  and  scoff: 
Slippery    the    feet    that    mount    by 
stairs  of  gold, 
And    weakest    of   all    fences    one    of 
steel :  — 
Go  and  keep  school  again  like  him 
of  old. 
The  Syracusan  tyrant ;  —  thou  mayst 

feel 
Royal  amid  a  birch-swayed  common- 
weal 1 


Not  long  can  he  be  ruler  who  allows 
His  time  to  run  before  him  ;   thou 
wast  naught 
Soon  as  the  strip  of  gold  about  thy 
brows 
Was  no  more  emblem  of  the  People's 
thought : 
Vain   were  thy  bayonets    against  the 
foe 
Thou  hadst  to  cope  with  :  thou  didst 
wage 
War  not  with  Frenchmen  merely :  — 
no, 
Thy  strife  was  with  the  Spirit  of  the 
Age, 


94 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


The  invisible  Spirit  whose  first  breath 
divine 
Scattered  thy  frail  endeavor, 
And,    like    poor    last    year's    leaves, 
whirled  thee  and  thine 
Into  the  Dark  forever  1 


Is    here  no    triumph  ?    Nay,    what 
though 
The  yellow  blood  of  Trade  meanwhile 
should  pour 
Along  its  arteries  a  shrunken  flow, 
And  the  idle  canvas  droop  around  the 
shore  ? 
These  do  not  make  a  state, 
Nor  keep  it  great ; 
I  think  God  made 
The  earth  for  man,  not  trade  ; 
And  where  each  humblest  human  crea- 
ture 
Can    stand,    no    more    suspicious    or 

afraid, 
Erect  and  kingly  in  his  right  of  nature, 
To  heaven  and  earth  knit  with  harmo- 
nious ties,  — 
Where  I  behold  the  exultation 
Of  manhood  glowing  in  those  eyes 
That  had  been  dark  for  ages,  — 
Or  only  lit  with  bestial  loves  and 
rages  — 
There  I  behold  a  Nation  : 
The  France  which  lies 
Between  the  Pyrenees  and  Rhine 
Is  the  least  part  of  France  ; 
I  see  her  rather  in  the  soul  whose  shine 
Burns  through  the  craftsman's  grimy 
countenance, 
In  the  new  energy  divine 
Of  Toil's  enfranchised  glance. 


And  if  it  be  a  dream,  — 
If  the  great  Future  be  the  little  Past 
'Neath  a  new  mask,  which  drops  and 

shows  at  last 
The   same  weird,   mocking  face   to 
balk  and  blast,  — 
Vet,  Muse,  a  gladder  measure  suits  the 
theme, 
And  the  Tyrtasan  harp 
Loves  notes  more  resolute  and 
sharp, 


Throbbing,  as  throbs  the  bosom,  hot 
and  fast  : 
Such  visions  are  of  morning, 
Theirs  is  no  vague  forewarning, 
The  dreams  which  nations  dream  come 
true, 
And  shape  the  world  anew  ; 
If  this  be  a  sleep, 
Make  it  long,  make  it  deep, 
O  Father,  who  sendest  the  harvest* 
men  reap  ! 
While  Labor  so  sleepeth 
His  sorrow  is  gone, 
No  longer  he  weepeth, 
But  smileth  and  steepeth 

His  thoughts  in  the  dawn; 
He  heareth  Hope  yonder 

Rain,  lark-like,  her  fancies, 
His  dreaming  hands  wander 

'Mid  heart's-ease  and  pansies  ; 
"'T  is  a  dream!  'T  is  a  vision  !" 

Shrieks  Mammon  aghast ; 
"The  day's  broad  derision 

Will  chase  it  at  last ; 
Ye  are  mad,  ye  have  taken 
A  slumbering  kraken 

For  firm  land  of  the  Past!'* 
Ah  !  if  he  awaken, 

God  shield  us  all  then, 

If  this  dream  rudely  shaken 

Shall  cheat  him  again  ! 


Since  first  I  heard  our  North  wind 

blow, 
Since  first  I  saw  Atlantic  throw 
On   our  fierce  rocks  his  thunderous 

snow, 
I  loved  thee,  Freedom  ;  as  a  boy 
The  rattle  of  thy  shield  at  Marathon 
Did  with  a  Grecian  joy 
Through  all  my  pulses  run  ; 
But  I  have  learned  to  love  thee  now 
Without  the  helm  upon  thy  gleaming 
brow, 
A  maiden  mild  and  undefiled 
Like  her  who  bore  the  world's  redeem- 
ing child  ; 
And  surely  never  did  thy  altars  glance 
With  purer  fires  than  now  in  France  ; 
While,  in  their  bright  white  flashes, 
Wrong's  shadow,  backward  cast, 
Waves  cowering  o'er  the  ashes 
Of  the  dead,  blaspheming  Past, 


ANTI-APIS. 


95 


O'er  the  shapes  of  fallen  giants, 
His  own  nnbnricd  brood. 
Whose  dead  bauds  clench  defiance 

At  the  overpowering  Good  : 
And  down  the  happy  future  runs  a  flood 

Of  prophesying  light  ; 
It  shows  an  Earth  no  longer  stained 

with  blood, 
Blossom  and  fruit  where  now  we  see  the 
bud 
Of  Brotherhood  and  Right. 


ANTI-APIS. 

Praisest  Law,  friend  ?  We,  too,  love 
it  much  as  they  that  love  it  best  ; 

'Tisthe  deep,  august  foundation, where- 
on Peace  and  Justice  rest  ; 

On  the  rock  primeval,  hidden  in  the 
Past  its  bases  be. 

Block  by  block  the  endeavoring  Ages 
built  it  up  to  what  we  see. 

But  dig  down  :  the  Old  unbury  ;  thou 

shalt  find  on  every  stone 
That  each  Age  hath  carved  the  symbol 

of  what  god  to  them  was  known. 
Ugly  shapes   and   brutish  sometimes, 

but  the  fairest  that  they  knew  ; 
If  their  sight  were  dim  and  earthward, 

yet  their  hope  and  aim  were  true. 

Surely  as  the  unconscious  needle  feels 

the  far-off  loadstar  draw, 
So   strives   every  gracious    nature    to 

at-one  itself  with  law  ; 
And   the   elder  Saints  and  Sages  laid 

their  pious  framework  right 
By  a  theocratic  instinct  covered  from 

the  people's  sight. 

As  their  gods  were,  so  their  laws  were  ; 

Thor  the  strong  could  reave  and 

steal, 
So  through  many  a  peaceful  inlet  tore 

the  Norseman's  eager  keel  ; 
But  a  new  law  came  when  Christ  came, 

and  not  blameless,  as  before, 
Can  we,  paying  him  our  lip-tithes,  give 

our  lives  and  faiths  to  Thor. 


Law  is  holy  :  ay,  but  what  law?  Is 
there  nothing  more  divine 

Than  the  patched-up  broils  of  Con- 
gress, —  venal,  full  of  meat  and 
wine  ? 

Is  there,  say  you,  nothing  higher? 
Naught,  God  save  us !  that  tran- 
scends 

Laws  of  cotton  texture,  wove  by  vulgar 
men  for  vulgar  ends? 

Did  Jehovah  ask  their  counsel,  or  sub- 
mit to  them  a  plan, 

Ere  he  filled  with  loves,  hopes,  long- 
ings, this  aspiring  heart  of  man  ? 

For  their  edict  does  the  soul  wait,  ere  it 
swing  round  to  the  pole 

Of  the  true,  the  free,  the  God-willed, 
all  that  makes  it  be  a  soul  ? 

Law  is  holy  :  but  not  your  law,  ye  who 
keep  the  tablets  whole 

While  ye  dash  the  Law  to  pieces,  shat- 
ter it  in  life  and  soul ; 

Bearing  up  the  Ark  is  lightsome,  golden 
Apis  hid  within, 

While  we  Levites  share  the  offerings, 
richer  by  the  people's  sin. 

Give  to  Caesar  what  is  Caesar's?  yes, 
but  tell  me,  if  you  can, 

Is  this  superscription  Caesar's  here  upon 
our  brother  man  ? 

Is  not  here  some  other's  image,  dark 
and  sullied  though  it  be, 

In  this  fellow-soul  that  worships,  strug- 
gles Godward  even  as  we  ? 

It  was  not  to  such  a  future  that  the  May- 
flower's prow  was  turned  ; 

Not  to  such  a  faith  the  martyrs  clung, 
exulting  as  they  burned  ; 

Not  by  such  laws  are  men  fashioned, 
earnest,  simple,  valiant,  great 

In  the  household  virtues  whereon  rests 
the  unconquerable  state. 

Ah  !  there  is  a  higher  gospel,  overhead 
the  God-roof  springs, 

And  each  glad,  obedient  planet  like  a 
golden  shuttle  sings 

Through  the  web  which  Time  is  weav- 
ing in  his  never-resting  loom,  — 

Weaving  seasons  many-colored,  bring- 
ing prophecy  to  doom. 


96 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Think  you  Truth  a  farthing  rushlight, 
to  be  pinched  out  when  you  will 

With  your  deft  official  fingers,  and  your 
politicians'  skill  ? 

Is  your  God  a  wooden  fetish,  to  be  hid- 
den out  of  sight 

That  his  block  eyes  may  not  see  you  do 
the  thing  that  is  not  right  ? 

But  the  Destinies  think  not  so  ;  to  their 

judgment-chamber  lone 
Comes   no   noise   of   popular    clamor, 

there  Fame's  trumpet  is  not  blown  ; 
Your   majorities  they  reck  not ;  —  that 

you  grant,  but  then  you  say 
That  you  differ  with  them  somewhat,  — 
which  is  stronger,  you  or  they  ? 

Patient   are   they  as  the   insects  that 

build  islands  in  the  deep  ; 
They  hurl  not  the   bolted  thunder,  but 

their  silent  way  they  keep  ; 
Where  they  have  been  that  we  know ; 

where  empires  towered  that  were 

not  just ; 
Lo  !  the  skulking  wild  fox  scratches  in 

a  little  heap  of  dust. 
1851. 


A   PARABLE. 

Said  Christ  our  Lord,  "  I  will  go  and 
see 

How  the  men,  my  brethren,  believe  in 
me." 

He  passed  not  again  through  the  gate 
of  birth, 

But  made  himself  known  to  the  chil- 
dren of  earth. 

Then  said  the  chief  priests,  and  rulers, 

and  kings, 
"  Behold,  now,  the  Giver  of  all  good 

things  ; 
Go  to,  let  us  welcome  with  pomp  and 

state 
Him  who  alone  is  mighty  and  great." 

With  carpets  of  gold  the  ground  they 

spread 
Wherever  the  Son  of  Man  should  tread, 


And  in  palace-chambers  lofty  and  rar» 
They  lodged  him,  and  served  him  with 
kingly  fare. 

Great  organs  surged  through  arches  din\ 
Their  jubilant  floods  in  praise  of  him  ; 
And  in  church,  and  palace,  and  judg- 
ment-hall, 
He  saw  his  image  high  over  all. 

But  still,  wherever  his  steps  they  led, 
The  Lord  in  sorrow  bent  down  his  head, 
And  from  under  the  heavy  foundation- 
stones, 
The  son  of  Mary  heard  bitter  groans. 

And  in  church,  and  palace,  and  judg- 
ment-hall, 

He  marked  great  fissures  that  rent  the 
wall, 

And  opened  wider  and  yet  more  wide 

As  the  living  foundation  heaved  and 
sighed. 

"  Have   ye   founded   your  thrones  and 

altars,  then, 
On  the  bodies  and  souls  of  living  men? 
And  think  ye  that  building  shall  endure, 
Which  shelters  the  noble  and  crushes 

the  poor  ? 

"  With  gates  of  silver  and  bars  of  gold 
Ye  have   fenced  my  sheep  from  their 

Father's  fold  ; 
I  have  heard  the  dropping  of  their  tears 
In    heaven    these    eighteen    hundred 

years." 

"  O  Lord  and  Master,  not  ours  the  guilt, 
We  build  but  as  our  fathers  built ; 
Behold  thine  images,  how  they  stand, 
Sovereignandsole,  through  all  our  land. 

'  Our  task  is  hard,  —  with  sword  and 

flame 
To  hold  thy  earth  forever  the  same, 
And  with  sharp  crooks  of  steel  to  keep 
Still,  as  thou  leftest  them,  thy  sheep." 

Then  Christ  sought  out  an  artisan, 
A  low-browed,  stunted,  haggard  man, 
And  a  motherless  girl,  whose  fingers  thin 
Pushed  from  her  faintly  want  and  sin- 


ODE.  —  LINES. 


97 


These  set  he  in  the  midst  of  them, 

And  as  they  drew  back  their  garment- 
hem, 

For  fear  of  defilement,  "  Lo,  here," 
said  he, 

"  The  images  ye  have  made  of  me  !  " 


ODE 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE  CELEBRATION  OF 
THE  INTRODUCTION  OF  THECOCHIT- 
UATE  WATER  INTO  THE  CITY  OF 
BOSTON. 

My  name  is  Water  :  I  have  sped 
Through  strange,  dark  ways,  untried 
before, 

By  pure  desire  of  friendship  led, 
Cochituate's  ambassador ; 

He  sends  four  royal  gifts  by  me  '■ 

Long  life,  health,  peace,  and  purity. 

I  'm  Ceres'  cup-bearer  ;  I  pour, 

For  flowers  and  fruits  and  all  their  kin, 

Her  crystal  vintage,  from  of  yore 
Stored  in  old  Earth's  selectest  bin, 

Flora's  Falernian  ripe,  since  God 

The  wine-press  of  the  deluge  trod. 

In  that  far  isle  whence,  iron-willed, 
The   New  World's  sires  their  bark 
unmoored, 
The  fairies'  acorn-cups  I  filled 

Upon  the  toadstool's  silver  board, 
And,  'neath    Heme's  oak,  for   Shake- 
speare's sight, 
Strewed  moss  and  grass  with  diamonds 
bright. 

No  fairies  in  the  Mayflower  came, 
And,  lightsome  as  I  sparkle  here, 

For  Mother  Bay  State,  busy  dame, 
I  've  toiled  and  drudged  this  many  a 
year, 

Throbbed  in  her  engines'  iron  veins, 

Twirled  myriad  spindles  for  her  gains. 

I,  too,  can  weave  :  the  warp  I  set 
Through  which  the  sun  his  shuttle 
throws, 

And,  bright  as  Noah  saw  it,  yet 
For  you  the  arching  rainbow  glows, 


A  sight  in  Paradise  denied 

To  unfallen  Adam  and  his  bride. 

When  Winter  held  me  in  his  grip, 
You  seized  and  sent  me  o'er  the  wave. 

Ungrateful  !  in  a  prison-ship  ; 
But  I  forgive,  not  long  a  slave, 

For,  soon  as  summer  south-winds  blew, 

Homeward  1  fled,  disguised  as  dew. 

For  countless  services  I  'm  fit, 
Of  use,  of  pleasure,  and  of  gain, 

But  lightly  from  all  bonds  I  flit, 

Nur  lose  my  mirth,  nor  feel  a  stain  ; 

From  mill  and  wash-tub  I  escape, 

And  take  in  heaven  my  proper  shape. 

So,  free  myself,  to-day,  elate 

I  come  from  far  o'er  hill  and  mead, 

And  here,  Cochituate's  envoy,  wait 
To  be  your  blithesome  Ganymede, 

And  brim  your  cups  with  nectar  true 

That  never  will  make  slaves  of  you. 


LINES 

SUGGESTED  BY  THE  GRAVES  OF  TWO 
ENGLISH  SOLDIERS  ON  CONCORD 
BATTLE-GROUND. 

The  same  good  blood  that  now  refills 
The  dotard  Orient's  shrunken  veins, 
The  same  whose  vigor  westward  thrills, 
Bursting  Nevada's  silver  chains, 
Poured  here  upon  the  April  grass, 
Freckled  with  red  the  herbage  new  ; 
On  reeled  the  battle's  trampling  mass, 
Back  to  the  ash  the  bluebird  flew. 

Poured  here  in  vain; — that  sturdy  blood 
Was  meant  to  make  the   earth   more 

green, 
But  in  a  higher,  gentler  mood 
Than  broke  this  April  noon  serene  : 
Twogravesare  here  :  to  mark  the  place, 
At  head  and  foot,  an  unhewn  stone, 
O'er  which  the  herald  lichens  trace 
The  blazon  of  Oblivion. 

These  men  were  brave  enough,  and  true 
To  the  hired  soldier's  bull-dog  creed  ; 
What  brought  them   here   they  never 
knew, 


98 


MISCELLANEOUS  .  OEMS. 


They  fought  as  suits  the  English  breed: 
They  came  three  thousand  miles,  and 

died, 
To  keep  the  Past  upon  its  throne  ; 
Unheard,  beyond  the  ocean  tide, 
Their  English  mother  made  her  moan. 

The  turf  that  covers  them  no  thrill 
Sends  up  to  fire  the  heart  and  brain  ; 
No  stronger  purpose  nerves  the  will, 
No  hope  renews  its  youth  again  : 
From  farm  to  farm  the  Concord  glides, 
And  trails  my  fancy  with  its  flow ;  _ 
O'erhead  the  balanced  hen-hawk  slides, 
Twinned  in  the  river's  heaven  below. 

But  go,  whose  Bay  State  bosom  stirs, 
Proud  of  thy  birth  and  neighbor's  right, 
Where  sleep  the  heroic  villagers 
Borne  red  and  stiff  from  Concord  fight ; 
Thought  Reuben,  snatching  down  his 

gun, 
Or  Seth,  as  ebbed  the  life  away, 
What  earthquake  rifts  would  shoot  and 

run 
World-wide  from  that  short  April  fray? 

What  then  ?    With  heart  and  hand  they 

wrought, 
According  to  their  village  light ; 
'T  was  for  the  Future  that  they  fought, 
Their  rustic  faith  in  what  was  right. 
Upon  earth's  tragic  stage  they  burst 
Unsummoned,  in  the  humble  sock  ; 
Theirs  the  fifth  act ;  the  curtain  first 
Rose  long  ago  on  Charles's  block. 

Their  graves  have  voices ;  if  they  threw 
Dice  charged  with   fates  beyond  their 

ken. 
Yet  to  their  instincts  they  were  true, 
And  had  the  genius  to  be  men. 
Fine  privilege  of  Freedom's  host, 
Of  even  foot-soldiers  for  the  Right  !  — 
For  centuries  dead,  ye  are  not  lost, 
Your  graves  send  courage   forth,  and 

might. 


O 


We,  too,  have  autumns,  when  our  leaves 
Drup  loosely  through  the  dampened 
air, 


When   all   our  good  seei.is  ^"nd  i* 
sheaves, 
And  we  stand  reaped  and  bare. 

Our  seasons  have  no  fixed  returns, 
Without  our  will  they  come  and  go; 

At  noon  our  sudden  summer  burns, 
Ere  sunset  all  is  snow. 

But  each  day  brings  less  summer  cheer. 
Crimps  more  our  ineffectual  spring, 

And  something  earlier  every  year 
Our  singing  birds  take  wing. 

As  less  the  olden  glow  abides, 
And  less  the  chillier  heart  aspires, 

With  drift-wood  beached  in  past  spring- 
tides 
We  light  our  sullen  fires. 

By  the    pinched    rushlight's    starving 
beam 
We  cower  and  strain  our  wasted  sight, 
To  stitch  youth's  shroud  up,  seam  by 
seam, 
In  the  long  arctic  night. 

It  was  not  so  —  we  once  were  young  — 
When  Spring,  to  womanly  Summer 
turning, 
Her  dew-drops    on    each  grass-blade 
strung, 
In  the  red  sunrise  burning. 

We  trusted  then,  aspired,  believed 
That  earth  could  be  remade  to-mor- 
row ;  — 

Ah,  why  be  ever  undeceived  ? 
Why  give  up  faith  for  sorrow? 

O  thou,  whose  days  are  yet  all  spring, 
Faith,  blighted  once,  is  past  retrier- 
ing; 

Experience  is  a  dumb,  dead  thing ; 
The  victory  's  in  believing. 


FREEDOM. 

Are  we,  then,  wholly  fallen  ?    Can  it  be 
That  thou,  North  wind,  that  from  thy 

mountains  bringest 
Their  spirit  to  our  plains,  and  thou, 

blue  sea, 


FREEDOM.  —  BIBLIOLA  TRE± 


99 


AVlio  on  our  rocks  thy  wreaths  of  free- 
dom flingest, 
As  on  an  altar,  —  can  it  be  that  ye 
Have  wasted  inspiration  on  dead  ears, 
.Uulled  with  the  too  familiar  clank  of 

chains? 
The  people's  heart  is  like  a  harp  for 

years 
Hung   where   some   petrifying   torrent 

rains 
Its  slow-incrusting  spray  :  the  stiffened 

chords 
Faint  and  more  faint  make  answer  to 

the  tears 
That  drip  upon  them:  idle  are  all  words  : 
Only  a  silver  plectrum  wakes  the  tone 
Deep  buried  'neath  that  ever-thicken- 
ing stone. 

We  are  not  free  :    Freedom   doth  not 

consist 
In  musing  with  our  faces  toward  the 

Past, 
While  petty  cares,  and  crawling  inter- 
ests, twist 
Their  spider-threads  about  us,  which  at 

last 
Grow  strong  as  iron  chains,  to  cramp 

and  bind 
[n  formal  narrowness  heart,  soul,  and 

mind. 
Freedom  is  recreated  year  by  year, 
In  hearts  wide  open  on  the  Godward 

side, 
In  souls  calm-cadenced  as  the  whirling 

sphere, 
In  minds  that  sway  the  future  like  a  tide. 
No  broadest  creeds  can  hold  her,  and 

no  codes ; 
She  chooses  men  for  her  august  abodes. 
Building  them  fair  and  fronting  to  the 

dawn  ; 
Yet,  when  we  seek  her,  we  but  find  a 

•few 
Light    footprints,   leading    morn-ward 

through  the  dew : 
Before  the  day  had  risen,  she  was  gone. 

And  we  must  follow  :  swiftly  runs  she 
on, 

And,  if  our  steps  should  slacken  in  de- 
spair, 

Half  turns  hei  face,  half  smiles  through 
golden  hair, 


Forever  yielding,  never  wholly  won  : 
Thatisnotlove  which  pauses  in  the  race 
Two   close-linked    names   on    fleeting 

sand  to  trace  : 
Freedom  gained  yesterday  is  no  more 

ours  : 
Men  gather  but  dry  seeds  of  last  year's 

flowers  ; 
Still  there  's  a  charm  ungranted,  still  a 

grace, 
Still  rosy  Hope,  the  free, the  unattained. 
Makes   us   Possession's   languid  hand 

let  fall  ; 
'T  is  but   a   fragment  of  ourselves  is 

gained, — 
The  Future  brings  us  more,  but  never 

all. 

And,  as  the  finder  of  some  unknown 
realm, 

Mounting  a  summit  whence  he  thinks 
to  see 

On  either  side  of  him  the  imprisoning 
sea, 

Beholds,  above  the  clouds  that  over- 
whelm 

The  valley-land,  peak  after  snowy  peak 

Stretch  out  of  sight,  each  like  a  silver 
helm 

Beneath  its  plume  of  smoke,  sublime 
and  bleak, 

And  what  he  thought  an  island  finds 
to  be 

A  continent  to  him  first  oped,  — so  we 

Can  from  our  height  of  Freedom  look 
along 

A  boundless  future, ours  if  we  be  strong  ; 

Or  if  we  shrink,  better  remount  our 
ships 

And,  fleeing  God's  express  design,  trace 
back 

The  hero-freighted  Mayflower's  pro- 
phet-track 

To  Europe,  entering  her  blood-red 
eclipse. 


BIBLIOLATRES. 

Bowing  thyself  in  dust  before  a  Book, 
And  thinking  the  great  God  is  thine 

alone, 
O  rash  iconoclast,  thou  wilt  not  brook 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


What  gods  the  heathen  carves  in  wood 

and  stone, 
As  if  the  Shepherd  who  from  outer  cold 
Leads  all  his  shivering  lambs  to  one 

sure  fold 
Were   careful   for  the   fashion    of   his 

crook. 

There  is  no  broken  reed  so  poor  and 

base, 
No  rush,  the  bending  tilt  of  swamp-fly 

blue, 
But  he   therewith  the   ravening  wolf 

can  chase, 
And   guide    his   flock   to   springs   and 

pastures  new  ; 
Through     ways     unlooked     for,     and 

through  many  lands, 
Far  from  the  rich  folds  built  with  hu- 
man hands, 
The  gracious  footprints  of  his  love  I 

trace. 

And  what  art  thou,  own  brother  of  the 
clod, 

That  from  his  hand  the  crook  would 
snatch  away 

And  shake  instead  thy  dry  and  sapless 
rod, 

To  scare  the  sheep  out  of  the  whole- 
some day  ? 

Yea,  what  art  thou,  blind,  unconverted 
Jew, 

That  with  thy  idol-volume's  covers  two 

Wouldst  make  a  jail  to  coop  the  living 
God? 

Thou  hear'st  not  well  the  mountain 
organ-tones 

By  prophet  ears  from  Hor  and  Sinai 
caught, 

Thinking  the  cisterns  of  those  He- 
brew brains 

Drew  dry  the  springs  of  the  All-know- 
er's  thought. 

Nor  shall  thy  lips  be  touched  with  liv- 
ing fire, 

Who  blow'st  old  altar-coals  with  sole 
desire 

To  weld  anew  the  spirit's  broken 
chains. 

God  is  not  dumb,  that  he  should  speak 
no  more  : 

If  thou  hast  wanderings  in  the  wilder- 
ness 


And  find'st  not  Sinai,  't  is  thy  soul  is 

poor  ; 
There    towers    the    mountain    of   the 

Voice  no  less, 
Which  whoso  seeks  shall  find,  but  he 

who  bends, 
Intent  on  manna  still  and  mortal  ends, 
Sees  it  not,  neither  hears  its  thundered 

lore. 

Slowly  the  Bible  of  the  race  is  writ, 
And  not  on  paper  leaves  nor  leaves  of 

stone  : 
Each  age,  each  kindred,  adds  a  verse 

to  it, 
Texts  of  despair  or  hope,   of  joy  oi 

moan. 
While  swings  the  sea,  while  mists  the 

mountains  shroud, 
While  thunder's  surges  burst  on  cliffs 

of  cloud, 
Still  at  the  prophets'  feet  the  nations 

sit. 


BEAVER  BROOK. 

Hushed  with  broad  sunlight  lies  the 

hill, 
And,  minuting  the  long  day's  loss, 
The  cedar's  shadow,  slow  and  still, 
Creeps  o'er  its  dial  of  gray  moss. 

Warm  noon  brims  full  the  valley's  cup. 
The  aspen's  leaves  are  scarce  astir  ; 
Only  the  little  mill  sends  up 
Its  busy,  never-ceasing  burr. 

Climbing  the  loose-piled  wall  that  hems 
The  road  along  the  mill-pond's  brink, 
From    'neath    the   arching    barberry- 
stems, 
My  footstep    scares  the  shy  chewink.    . 

Beneath  a  bony  buttonwood 
The  mill's  red  door  lets  forth  the  din  ; 
The  whitened  miller,  dust-imbued, 
Flits  past  the  square  of  dark  within. 

No  mountain  torrent's  strength  is  her©. 
Sweet  Beaver,  child  of  forest  still, 
Heaps  its  small  pitcher  to  the  ear, 
And  gently  waits  the  miller's  will. 


KOSSUTH.—  TO  LAMARTINE. 


Swift  slips  Undine  along  the  race 
Unheard,  and  then,  with  flashing  bound, 
Floods  the  dull  wheel  with  light  and 

grace, 
And,  laughing,  hunts  the  loath  drudge 

round. 

The  miller  dreams  not  at  what  cost 
The    quivering    millstones    hum    and 

whirl, 
Nor  how  for  every  turn  are  tost 
Armfuls  of  diamond  and  of  pearl. 

But  Summer  cleared  my  happier  eyes 
With  drops  of  some  celestial  juice, 
To  see  how  Beauty  underlies, 
Forevermore  each  form  of  Use. 

And  more  :  methought  I  saw  that  flood, 
Which  now  so  dull  and  darkling  steals, 


Thick,    here   and   there,    with   human 

blood, 
To  turn  the  world's  laborious  wheels. 

No  more  than  doth  the  miller  there, 
Shut  in  our  several  cells,  do  we 
Know  with  what  waste  of  beauty  rare 
Moves  every  day's  machinery. 

Surely  the  wiser  time  shall  come 
When  this  fine  overplus  of  might, 
No  longer  sullen,  slow,  and  dumb, 
Shall  leap  to  music  and  to  light. 

In  that  new  childhood  of  the  Earth 
Life  of  itself  shall  dance  and  play. 
Fresh  blood   in  Time's  shrunk  veins 

make  mirth, 
And  labor  meet  delight  half-way. 


MEMORIAL    VERSES, 


KOSSUTH. 

A  race  of  nobles  may  die  out, 
A  royal  line  may  leave  no  heir  ; 
Wise  Nature  sets  no  guards  about 
Her  pewter  plate  and  wooden  ware. 

But  they  fail  not,  the  kinglier  breed, 
Who  starry  diadems  attain  ; 
To  dungeon,  axe,  and  stake  succeed 
Heirs  of  the  old  heroic  strain. 

The  zeal  of  Nature  never  cools, 
Nor  is  she  thwarted  of  her  ends  : 
When  gapped  and  dulled  her  cheaper 

tools, 
Then  she  a  saint  and  prophet  spends. 

Land  of  the  Magyars  !  though  it  be 
The  tyrant  may  relink  his  chain, 
Already  thine  the  victory, 
As  the  just  Future  measures  gain. 

Thou  hast  succeeded,  thou  hast  won 
The  deathly  travail's  amplest  worth  ; 
A  nation's  duty  thou  hast  done, 
Giving  a  hero  to  our  earth. 


And  he,  let  come  what  will  of  woe, 
Has  saved  the  land  he  strove  to  save  ; 
No  Cossack  hordes,  no  traitor's  blow, 
Can  quench  the  voice  shall  haunt  his 
grave. 

"  I  Kossuth  am  :  O  Future,  thou 
That  clear'st  the  just  and   blott'st  the 

vile, 
O'er  this  small  dust  in  reverence  bow, 
Remembering  what  I  was  erewhile. 

"  I  was  the  chosen  trump  wherethrough 
Our  God  sent  forth  awakening  breath  : 
Came  chains?  Came  death?  The  strain 

He  blew 
Sounds  on,  outliving  chainsand  death.' 


TO  LAMARTINE. 
1848. 

I  did  not  praise  thee  when  the  crowd, 
'Witched   with  the   moment's   in- 
spiration, 

Vexed   thy  still   ether  with   hosannas 
loud, 


MEMORIAL    VERSES. 


And  stamped  theirdustyadoration  ; 
I  but  looked  upward  with  the  rest, 
And,    when    they    shouted    Greatest, 
whispered  Best. 

They  raised  thee  not,  but  rose  to  thee, 
Their   fickle    wreaths   about   thee 
flinging; 
So  on  some  marble  Phoebus  the  high  sea 
Might  leave  his  worthless  seaweed 
clinging, 
But  pious  hands,  with  reverent  care, 
Make  the  pure  limbs  once  more  sub- 
limely bare. 

Now  thou  'rt  thy  plain,  grand  self  again, 
Thou  art  secure  from  panegyric, — 
Thou  who  gav'st  politics  an  epic  strain, 
And   actedst     Freedom's    noblest 
lyric  ; 
This  side  the  Blessed  Isles,  no  tree 
Grows  green  enough  to  make  a  wreath 
for  thee. 

Nor  can  blame  cling  to  thee  ;  the  snow 
From  swinish  footprints  takes  no 
staining, 
But,  leaving   the   gross   soils  of  earth 
below, 
Its  spirit  mounts,  the  skies  regain- 
ing. 
And  unresenting  falls  again, 
To  beautify  the  world   with  dews  and 
rain. 

The  highest  duty  to  mere  man  vouch- 
safed 
Was  laid  on  thee,  —  out  of  wild 
chaos, 
When  the  roused  popular  ocean  foamed 
and  chafed. 
And  vulture  War  from  his  Imaus 
Snuffed   blood,   to  summon   homely 
Peace, 
And  show  that  only  order  is  release. 

To    carve    thy  fullest    thought,   what 
though 
Time  was  not    granted?     Aye   in 
history, 
Like   that  Dawn's  face  which  baffled 
Angelo 
Left     shapeless,    grander    for    its 
mystery, 
Thy  great  Design  shall  stand,  and  day 
Flood  its  blind  front  from  Orients  far 
away. 


Who  says  thy  day  is  o'er?     Control. 

My  heart,  that  bitter  first  emotion  ; 
While  men  shall  reverence  the  steadfast 
soul, 
The  heart  in  silent  self-devotion 
Breaking,  the  mild,  heroic  mien, 
Thou  'It  need  no  prop  of  marble,  La- 
martine. 

If  France  reject  thee,  't  is  not  thine. 

But  her  own,  exile  that  she  utters  : 
Ideal  France,  the  deathless,  the  divine, 
Will  be  where  thy  white  pennon 
flutters, 
As  once  the  nobler  Athens  went 
With  Aristides  into  banishment. 

No  fitting  metewand  hath  To-day 

For     measuring     spirits     of    thy 
stature,  — 
Only  the  Future  can  reach  up  t(   lay 
The  laurel  on  that  lofty  nature,  — 
Bard,  who  with  some  diviner  art 
Has   touched   the   bard's  true   lyre,  » 
nation's  heart. 

Swept   by   thy  hand,    the    gladdeneo 
chords, 
Crashed  now  in  discords  fierce  by 
others, 
Gave  forth  one  note  beyond  all  skill  ol 
words, 
And    chimed     together,    We    ai  ( 
brothers. 
O  poem  unsurpassed  !  it  ran 
All  round  the  world,  unlocking  man  t  ■ 
man. 

France  is  too  poor  to  pay  alone 

The  service  of  that  ample  spirit  ; 

Paltry  seem  low  dictatorshipand  throne, 

If  balanced  with  thy  simple  merit. 

They  had  to  thee  been  rust  and  loss  ; 

Thy    aim     was     higher,  —  thou     hast 

climbed  a  Cross. 


TO   JOHN  G.   PALFREY. 

There  are  who  triumph  in  a  losing 
cause, 
Who  can  put  on  defeat,  as  'twere  a 
wreath 


TO  JOHN  G.   PALFREY. 


103 


Vlnwkhering  in  the   adverse    popular 

bream, 
Safe  from  the  blasting  demagogue's 

applause  ; 
'T  is  they  who  stand  for  Freedom  and 

God's  laws. 

And  so  stands  Palfrey  now,  as  Marvell 

stood, 
Loyal  to  Truth  dethroned,  nor  could  be 
wooed 
To  trust   the   playful   tiger's  velvet 
paws : 
And  if  the  second  Charles  brought  in 
decay 
Of  ancientvirtue.if  it  well  might  wring 
Souls   that    had   broadened   'neath     a 
nobler  day, 
To  see  a  losel,  marketable  king 
Fearfully  watering  with  his  realm's  best 
blood 
Cromwell's  quenched  bolts,  that  erst 
had  cracked  and  flamed, 
Scaring,    through   all   their  depths   of 
courtier  mud, 
Europe's    crowned   bloodsuckers,  — 
how  more  ashamed 
Ought  we  to  be,  who  see  Corruption's 
flood 
Still  rise  o'er  last  year's  mark,  to  mine 

away 
Our  brazen  idols'  feet  of  treacherous 
clay  1 

0  utter  degradation  !     Freedom  turned 
Slavery's   vile    bawd,   to   cozen  and 

betray 
To  the  old  lecher's  clutch  a  maiden 
prey, 
If  so  a  loathsome  pander's  fee  be  earned ! 
And  we  are  silent,  —  we  who  daily 
tread 
A  soil  sublime,  at  least,  with  heroes' 
graves  !  — 
Beckon  no  more,  shades  of  the  noble 
dead! 
Be   dumb,    ye   heaven-touched  lips  of 
winds  and  waves  ! 
Or  hope  to  rouse  some  Coptic  dullard, 
hid 
Ages  ago,  wrapt  stiffly,  fold  on  fold, 
With  cerements  close,  to  wither  in  the 
cold 
Fore  ver  hushed,  and  sunless  pyramid  1 


Beauty  and  Truth,  and  all  that  these 

contain, 
Drop  not  like  ripened  fruit  about  our 

feet  ; 
We  climb  to  them   through  years  of 

sweat  and  pain  ; 
Without  long  struggle,  none  did  e  er 

attain 
The  downward  look  from  Quiet's  bliss- 
ful seat : 
Though  present  loss  may  be  the  hero's 

part, 
Yet  none  can  rob  him  of  the  victor 

heart 
Whereby  the  broad-realmed  future  is 

subdued, 
And  Wrong,  which  now  insults  from 

triumph's  car, 
Sending  her  vulture  hope  to  raven  far. 
Is  made  unwilling  tributary  of  Good. 

O    Mother   State,    how  quenched  thy 
Sinai  fires  ! 
Is  there  none  left  of  thy  stanch  May- 
flower breed  ? 
No  spark  among  the  ashes  of  thy  sires, 
Of  Virtue's  altar-flame  the  kindling 
seed  ? 
Are  these  thy  great  men,  these  that 
cringe  and  creep, 
And  writhe  through  slimy  ways  to 
place  and  power  ?  — 
How  long,  O   Lord,  before  thy  wrath 
shall  reap 
Our  frail-stemmed  summer  prosper- 
ings  in  their  flower  ? 
O  for  one  hour  of  that  undaunted  stock 
That  went  with  Vane  and  Sydney  to 
the  block  1 

O  for  a  whiff  of  Naseby,  that  would 
sweep, 
With  its  stern  Puritan  besom,  all  this 

chaff 
From  the  Lord's  threshing-floor !  Yet 
more  than  half 
The  victory  is  attained,   when  one  or 
two, 
Through  the  fool's  laughter  and  the 

traitor's  scorn, 
Beside  thy  sepulchre  can  abide  the 
morn, 
Cruel  led  Truth,  wbe.i  thou  sha>  ris« 
anew. 


•°4 


MEMORIAL    VERSES. 


TO  W.   L.   GARRISON. 

"  Some  time  afterward,  it  was  reported  to 
me  by  the  city  officers  that  they  had  ferreted 
out  the  paper  and  its  editor ;  that  his  office 
was  an  obscure  hole,  his  only  visible  auxiliary 
a  negro  boy,  and  his  supporters  a  few  very 
insignificant  persons  of  all  colors."  —  Letter 
0/  N.  G.  Otis. 

In  a  small  chamber,  friendless  and  un- 
seen, 
Toiled  o'er  his  types  one  poor,  un- 
learned young  man  ; 
The  place  was  dark,  unfurnitured,  and 
mean  :  — 
Yet  there  the  freedom  of  a  race  began. 

Help  came  but  slowly  ;  surely  no  man 
yet 
Put   lever  to  the  heavy  world  with 
less : 
What  need  of  help?      He  knew   how 
types  were  set, 
He  had  a  dauntless  spirit,  and  a  press. 

Such  earnest  natures  are  the  fiery  pith, 
The  compact  nucleus,    round  which 
systems  grow  ! 
Mass  after  mass  becomes  inspired  there- 
with. 
And  whirls  impregnate  with  the  cen- 
tral glow. 

O  Truth  !  O  Freedom  !  how  are  ye  still 
born 
In  the  rude  stable,  in   the   manger 
nursed  ! 
What  humble  hands  unbar  those  gates 
of  mom 
Through  which  the  splendors  of  the 
New  Day  burst  ! 

What  !  shall  one  monk,  scarce  known 
beyond  his  cell, 
Front  Rome's  far-reaching  bolts,  and 
scorn  her  frown? 
Brave    Luther    answered    Yes  :     that 
thunder's  swell 
Rocked  Europe,  and  discharmed  the 
triple  crown. 

Whatever  can  be  known  of  earth  we 
know, 
Sneered  Europe's  wise  men,  in  their 
snail-shells  curled ; 


No  I  said  one  man  in  Genoa,  and  that 
No 
Out  of  the  dark  created  this  New 
World. 

Who  is  it  will  not  dare  himself  to  trust  ? 
Who  is  it  hath  not  strength  to  stand 
alone? 
Who  is  it  thwarts  and  bilks  the  inward 

MUST  ? 

He  and  his  works,   like  sand,  from 
earth  are  blown. 

Men  of  a  thousand  shifts  and  wiles, 
look  here  1 
See   one   straightforward  conscience 
put  in  pawn 
To  win   a  world  ;    see    the  obedient 
sphere 
Bybravery'ssimplegravitationdrawnl 

Shall  we  not  heed  the  lesson  taught  of 
old, 
And  by  the  Present's  lips  repeated 
still, 
In  our  own  single  manhood  to  be  bold, 
Fortressed  in  conscience  and  impreg- 
nable will  ? 

We  stride  the  river  daily  at  its  spring, 
Nor,  in  our  childish  thoughtlessness, 
foresee' 
What  myriad  vassal  streams  shall  trib- 
ute bring, 
How  like  an  equal  it  shall  greet  the 
sea. 

O  small  beginnings,  ye  are  great  and 
strong, 
Based  on  a  faithful  heart  and  weari- 
less brain  ! 
Ye   build  the   future  fair,  ye  conquer 
wrong, 
Ye  earn  the  crown,  and  wear  it  not  in 


ON   THE   DEATH   OF   C.   T. 
TORREY. 

Woe  worth  the  hour  when  it  is  crime 
To  plead  the  poor  dumb  bondman's 
cause, 


ON  THE   DEATH  OF  DR.    CHANNING. 


105 


When  all  that  makes  the  heart  sublime, 
The  glorious  throbs  that  conquer  time, 
Are  traitors  to  our  cruel  laws  ! 

He  strove  among  God's  suffering  poor 
One  gleam  of  brotherhood  to  send  ; 
The  dungeon  oped  its  hungry  door 
To  give  the  truth  one  martyr  more, 
Then   shut,  —  and  here   behold  the 
end  ! 

O  Mother  State  !  when  this  was  done, 
No  pitying  throe  thy  bosom  gave  ; 

Silent   thou    saw'st    the   death-shroud 
spun, 

And  now  thou  givest  to  thy  son 
The  stranger's  charity,  —  a  grave. 

Must  it  be  thus  forever  ?     No  ! 

The  hand  of  God  sows  not  in  vain  ; 
Long  sleeps  the  darkling  seed  below, 
The  seasons  come,  and  change,  and  go, 

And  all  the  fields  are  deep  with  grain. 

Although  our  brother  lie  asleep, 

Man's  heart  still   struggles,   still  as- 
pires ; 
His  grave  shall  quiver  yet,  while  deep 
Through  the  brave  Bay  State's  pulses 
leap 
Her  ancient  energies  and  fires. 

When  hours  like  this  the  senses'  gush 
Have  stilled,  and  left  the  spirit  room, 
It  hears  amid  the  eternal  hush 
The  swooping  pinions'  dreadful  rush. 
That  bring  the  vengeance  and  the 
doom ;  — 

Not  man's  brute  vengeance,  such  as 
rends 

What  rivets  man  to  man  apart, — 
God  doth  not  so  bring  round  his  ends, 
But  waits  the  ripened  time,  and  sends 

His  mercy  to  the  oppressor's  heart. 


ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF 
DR.  CHANNING. 

I  do  not  come  to  weep  above  thy  pall, 
And  mourn  the  dying-out  of  noble 
powers ; 


The  poet's  clearer  eye  should  see,  in  all 
Earth's   seeming   woe,    the   seed   of 
Heaven's  flowers. 

Truth  needs  no  champions  :  in  the  in- 
finite deep 
Of    everlasting    Soul    her    strength 
abides, 
From  Nature's  heart  her  mighty  pulses 
leap, 
Through  Nature's  veins  her  strength, 
undying,  tides. 

Peace  is  more  strong   than  war,  and 
gentleness, 
Where  force  were  vain,  makes  con- 
quest o'er  the  wave ; 
And  love  lives  on  and  hath  a  power  to 
bless, 
When  they  who  loved  are  hidden  in 
the  grave. 

The  sculptured  marble  brags  of  death- 
strewn  fields, 
And  Glory's  epitaph  is  writ  in  blood  ; 
But  Alexander  now  to  Plato  yields, 
Clarkson  will  stand  where  Wellington 
hath  stood. 

I  watch  the  circle  of  the  eternal  years, 

And  read  forever  in  the  storied  page 

One    lengthened    roll    of   blood,    and 

wrong,  and  tears,  — 

One  onward  step  of  Truth  from  age 

to  age. 

The  poor  are  crushed ;  the  tyrants  link 
their  chain ; 
The  poet  sings  through  narrow  dun- 
geon-grates ; 
Man's  hope  lies  quenched  ; — and,  lo  ! 
with  steadfast  gain 
Freedom  doth  forge  her  mail  of  ad- 
verse fates. 

Men  slay  the  prophets  :  fagot,  rack,  and 
cross 
Make  up  the  groaning  record  of  the 
past  ; 
But  Evil's  triumphs  are  her  endless  loss, 
And  sovereign  Beauty  wins  the  soul 
at  last. 

No  power  can  die  that  ever  wrought  for 
Truth ; 
Thereby  a  law  of  Nature  it  became, 


io6 


MEMORIAL    VERSES. 


And    lives    unwithered   in   its  sinewy 
youth, 
When  he  who  called  it  forth  is  but  a 
name 

Therefore  I  cannot  think  thee  wholly 
gone  ; 
The  better  part  of  thee   is  with  us 
stil!  ; 
Thy  soul  its  hampering  clay  aside  hath 
thrown, 
And  only  freer  wrestles  with  the  111. 

Thou  livest  in  the  life  of  all  good  things  ; 
What  words  thou  spak'st  for  Free- 
dom shall  not  die  ; 
Thou  sleepest  not,  for  now  thy  Love 
hath  wings 
To  soar  where  hence  thy  Hope  could 
hardly  fly. 

And  often,  from  that  other  world,  on 
this 
Some  gleams  from  great  souls  gone 
before  may  shine, 
To  shed  on  struggling  hearts  a  clearer 
bliss, 
And  clothe  the  Right  with  lustre  more 
divine. 

Thou  art  not  idle  :  in  thy  higher  sphere 
Thy  spirit  bends  itself  to  loving  tasks. 

And  strength,  to  perfect  what  it  dreamed 
of  here 
Is  all  the  crown  and  glory  that  it  asks. 

For  sure,  in  Heaven's  wide  chambers, 
there  is  room 
For  love  and  pity,  and  for  helpful 
deeds; 
Else  were  our  summons  thither  but  a 
doom 
To  life  more  vain  than  this  in  clayey 
weeds. 

From  off  the  starry  mountain-peak  of 
song, 
Thy  spirit  shows  me,  in  the  coming 
time, 
An   earth  unwithered  by  the  foot   of 
wrong, 
A  race  revering  its  own  soul  sublime. 

What   wars,    what   martyrdoms,    what 
crimes,  may  come, 
Thou  knowest  not,  nor  I  ;  but  God 
will  lead 


The  prodigal  soul  from  want  and  sorrow 
home, 
And  Eden  ope  her  gates  to  Adam's 
seed. 

Farewell  !  good  man,  good  angel  now ! 
this  hand 
Soon,  like  thine  own,  shall  lose  its 
cunning  too ; 
Soon   shall    this  soul,  like  thine,   be- 
wildered stand, 
Then   leap   to  thread  the  free,  un- 
fathomed  blue : 

When  that  day  comes,  O,  may  this  hand 
grow  cold, 
Busy,   like  thine,   for  Freedom  and 
the  Right  ; 
O    may  this  soul,  like  thine,   be  ever 
bold 
To  face  dark  Slavery's  encroaching 
blight ! 

This  laurel-leaf  I  cast  upon  thy  bier; 
Let   worthier  hands  than  these  thy 
wreath  intwine  ; 
Upon   thy   hearse    I   shed  no   useless 
tear,  — 
For  us  weep  rather  thou  in  calm  di' 
vine  ! 

1842.  


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  HOOD. 

Another  star  'neath  Time's  horizon 
dropped, 
To  gleam  o'er  unknown  lands  and 
seas  ; 
Another  heart  that  beat  for  freedom 
stopped,  — 
What  mournful  words  are  these  ! 

O  Love  Divine,  that  claspest  our  tired 
earth, 
And  lullest  it  upon  thy  heart, 
Thou  knowest  how  much  a  gentle  soul 
is  worth 
To  teach  men  what  thou  art ! 

His  was  a  spirit  that  to  all  thy  poor' 
Was  kind  as  slumber  after  pain  : 

Why    ope    so    soon  thy   heaven-deep 
Quiet's  door 
And  call  him  home  again  ? 


SONNETS. 


107 


is 


Freedom  needs  all  her  poets :    it 
they 

Who  give  her  aspirations  wings, 
And  to  the  wiser  law  of  music  sway 

Her  wild  imaginings. 

Yet  thou  hast  called  him,  nor  art  thou 
unkind, 
O  Love  Divine,  for  't  is  thy  will 
That  gracious  natures  leave  their  love 
behind 
To  work  for  Freedom  still. 

Let  laurelled  marbles  weigh  on  other 
tombs, 
Let  anthems  peal  for  other  dead, 


Rustling  the  bannered  depth  of  minster' 
glooms 
With  their  exulting  spread. 

His  epitaph  shall  mock  the  short-lived 
stone, 
No  lichen  shall  its  lines  efface, 
He  needs  these  few  and  simple  lines 
alone 
To  mark  his  resting-place  :  — 

"  Here  lies  a  Poet.     Stranger,  if  to  thee 
His  claim  to  memory  be  obscure, 

If  thou  wouldst  learn  how  truly  great 
was  he, 
Go,  ask  it  of  the  poor." 


SONNETS 


I. 


TO  A.  C.   L. 


Yhrough  suffering  and  sorrow  thou 

hast  passed 
To  show  us  what  a  woman  true  may  be  : 
They  have  not  taken  sympathy  from 

thee, 
Nor  made  thee  any  other  than  thou 

wast, 
Save  as  some  tree,  which,  in  a  sudden 

blast, 
Sheddeth    those    blossoms,    that    are 

weakly  grown, 
Upon  the  air,  but  keepeth  every  one 
Whose  strength  gives  warrant  of  good 

fruit  at  last : 
So  thou   hast   shed  some  blooms  of 

gayety, 
But  never  one  of  steadfast  cheerful- 
ness ; 
Nor  hath  thy  knowledge  of  adversity 
Robbed  thee  of  any  faith  in  happiness, 
But  rather  cleared  thine  inner  eyes  to 

see 
How  many  simple  ways  there  are  to 

bless. 
1840. 


II. 


What  were  I,  Love,  if  I  were  stripped 
of  thee, 

If  thine  eyes  shut  me  out  whereby  I 
live, 

Thou,  who  unto  my  calmer  soul  dost 
give 

Knowledge,  and  Truth,  and  holy  Mys- 
tery, 

Wherein  Truth  mainly  lies  for  those 
who  see 

Beyond  the  earthly  and  the  fugitive, 

Who  in  the  grandeur  of  the  soul  be- 
lieve, 

And  only  in  the  Infinite  are  free? 

Without  thee  I  were  naked,  bleak,  and 
bare 

As  yon  dead  cedar  on  the  sea-cliff's 
brow  ; 

And  Nature's  teachings,  which  come 
to  me  now, 

Common  and  beautiful  as  light  and 
air, 

Would  be  as  fruitless  as  a  stream  which 
still 

Slips  through  the  wheel  of  some  old 
ruined  mill. 

1841. 


io8 


SONNETS. 


III. 

I  would  not  have  this  perfect  love  of 

ours 
Grow  from  a  single  root,  a  single  stem, 
Bearing  no  goodly  fruit,  but  only  flow- 
ers 
That  idly  hide  life's  iron  diadem  : 
It  should  grow  alway  like  that  eastern 

tree 
Whose  limbs  take  root  and  spread  forth 

constantly  ; 
That  love  for  one,   from  which   there 

doth  not  spring 
Wideloveforall,  is  but  a  worthless  thing. 
Not  in  another  world,  as  poets  prate, 
Dwell  we  apart  above  the  tide  of  things, 
High  floating   o'er  earth's  clouds  on 

faery  wings  ; 
But  our  pure  love  doth  ever  elevate 
Into  a  holy  bond  of  brotherhood 
All  earthly  things,  making  them  pure 

and  good. 

1840. 


IV. 


"  For  this  true  nobleness  I  seek  in  vain, 

In  woman  and  in  man  I  find  it  not ; 

I  almost  weary  of  my  earthly  lot, 

My  life-springs  are  dried  up  with  burn- 
ing pain." 

Thou  find'st  it  not  ?    I  pray  thee  look 
again, 

Look  inward  through   the  depths  of 
thine  own  soul. 

How  is  it  with  thee  ?  Art  thou  sound 
and  whole  ? 

Doth  narrow  search  show  thee  no  earth- 
ly stain  ? 

Be  noble  !  and  the  nobleness  thatlies 

In    other    men,    sleeping,    but    never 
dead, 

Will   rise   in   majesty   to    meet    thine 
own  : 

Then  wilt  thou  see  it  gleam  in  many 
eyes, 

Then  will  pure  light  around  thy  path  be 
shed, 

And  thou  wilt  nevermore  be  sad  and 
lone 
1840 


V. 
TO   THE  SPIRIT  OF   KEATS. 

Great  soul,  thou  sittest  with  me  in  my 
room, 

Uplifting  me  with  thy  vast,  quiet  eyes, 

On  whose  full  orbs,  with  kindly  lustre, 
lies 

The  twilight  warmth  of  ruddy  ember- 
gloom  : 

Thy  clear,  strong  tones  will  oft  bring 
sudden  bloom 

Of  hope  secure,  to  him  who  lonely  cries, 

Wrestling  with  the  young  poet's  agonies, 

Neglect  and  scorn,  which  seem  a  cer- 
tain doom  : 

Yes  !  the  few  words  which,  like  great 
thunder-drops, 

Thy  large  heart  down  to  earth  shook 
doubtfully, 

Thrilled  by  the  inward  lightning  of  its 
might, 

Serene  and  pure,  like  gushing  joy  of 
light, 

Shall  track  the  eternal  chords  of  Des- 
tiny, 

After  the  moon-led  pulse  of  ocean  stops. 
1 841. 


VI. 

Great  Truths  are  portions  of  the  soul 

of  man  ; 
Great  souls  are  portions  of  Eternity  ; 
Each  drop  of  blood  that  e'er  through 

true  heart  ran 
With  lofty  message,  ran  for  thee  and 

me  ; 
For  God's  law,  since  the   starry  song 

began, 
Hath  been,  and  still  forevermore  must 

be, 
That   every  deed   which   shall   outlast 

Time's  span 
Must  goad  the  soul  to  be  erect  and  free  ; 
Slave  is  no  word  of  deathless  lineage 

sprung,  — 
Too  many  noble  souls  have  thought  and 

died, 
Too  many  mighty  poets  lived  and  sung, 
And  our  good  Saxon,  from  lips  purified 


SONNETS. 


iog 


With  martyr-fire,  throughout  the  world 

hath  rung 
Too  long  to  have  God's  holy  cause  de- 
nied. 
1841.  


VII. 


I  ASK  not  for  those  thoughts,  that  sud- 
den leap 

From  being's  sea,  like  the  isle-seeming 
Kraken, 

With  whose  great  rise  the  ocean  all  is 
shaken 

And  a  heart-tremble  quivers  through 
the  deep  ; 

Give  me  that  growth  which  some  per- 
chance deem  sleep, 

Wherewith  the  steadfast  coral-stems 
uprise, 

Which,  by  the  toil  of  gathering  energies, 

Their  upward  way  into  clear  sunshine 
keep, 

Until,  by  Heaven's  sweetest  influences, 

Slowly  and  slowly  spreads  a  speck  of 
green 

Into  a  pleasant  island  in  the  seas, 

Where,  'mid  tall  palms,  the  cane-roofed 
home  is  seen, 

And  wearied  men  shall  sit  at  sunset's 
hour, 

Hearing  the  leaves  and  loving  God's 
dear  power. 

1841. 


VIII. 
TO   M.  W.,   ON   HER    BIRTHDAY. 

Maiden,  when  such  a  soul  as  thine  is 
born, 

The  morning-stars  their  ancient  music 
make, 

And,  joyful,  onceagain  theirsongawake, 

Long  silent  now  with  melancholy  scorn  ; 

And  thou,  not  mindless  of  so  blest  a 
morn, 

By  no  least  deed  its  harmony  shalt 
break. 

But  shalt  to  that  high  chime  thy  foot- 
steps take, 


Through  life's  most  darksome  passes 

unforlorn  ; 
Therefore  from  thy  pure  faith  thou  shalt 

riot  fall, 
Therefore  shalt  thou  be  ever  fair  and 

free, 
And  in  thine  every  motion  musical 
As  summer  air,  majestic  as  the  sea, 
A  mystery  to  those  who  creep  and  crawl 
Through  Time,  and  part  it  from  Eter- 
nity. 


IX. 


My 


Love,   I   have  no  fear  that  thou 

shouldst  die  ; 
Albeit  I  ask  no  fairer  life  than  this, 
Whose    numbering-clock   is  still    thy 

gentle  kiss, 
While  Time  and  Peace  with  hands  en- 
locked  fly,  — 
Yet  care  I  not  where  in  Eternity 
We  live  and  love,  well  knowing  that 

there  is 
No  backward  step  for  those  who  feel  the 

bliss 
Of  Faith  as  their  most  lofty  yearnings 

high  : 
Love  hath  so  purified  my  being's  core, 
Meseems  I  scarcely  should  be  startled, 

even, 
To  find,  some  morn,  that   thou  hadst 

gone  before  ; 
Since,  with  thy  love,  this   knowledge 

too  was  given, 
Which  each  calm  day  doth  strengthen 

more  and  more, 
That  they  who  love  are  but  one  step 

from  Heaven. 

1841. 


I  cannot  think  that  thou  shouldst  pasi 

away, 
Whose  life  to  mine  is  an  eternal  law, 
A  piece  of  nature  that  can  have  no  fij  H, 
A  new  and  certain  sunrise  every  d?y  ; 
But,  if  thou  art  to  be  another  ra^- 
About  tfie  Run  cf  L:ie,  and  -art  .c  lwe 


SONNETS. 


Free  from  all  of  thee  that  was  fugitive, 
The  debt  of  Love  I  will  more  fully  pay, 
Not  downcast  with  the  thought  of  thee 

so  high, 
But  rather  raised  to  be  a  nobler  man, 
And  more  divine  in  my  humanity, 
As  knowing  that  the  waiting  eyes  which 

scan 
My  life  are  lighted  by  a  purer  being, 
And  ask   meek,   calm-browed    deeds, 

with  it  agreeing. 

1841. 


XI. 


There  never  yet  was  flower  fair  in  vain, 
Let  classic  poets  rhyme  it  as  they  will ; 
The  seasons  toil  that  it  may  blow  again, 
And  summer's  heart  doth  feel  its  every 

ill; 
Nor  is  a  true  soul  ever  born  for  naught ; 
Wherever  any  such  hath  lived  and  died, 
There  hath  been  something  for  true 

freedom  wrought, 
Some  bulwark  levelled  on  the  evil  side: 
Toil  on,  then.  Greatness  !  thou  art  in 

the  right, 
However  narrow  souls  may  call   thee 

wrong ; 
Be  as  thou  wouldst  be  in  thine  own 

clear  sight, 
And  so  thou  wilt  in  all  the  world's  ere- 
long : 
For  worldlings  cannot,  struggle  as  they 

may, 
From  man's  great  soul  onegreat  thought 

hide  away. 
1841. 


XII. 

SUB  PONDERE  CRESCIT. 

The  hope  of  Truth  grows  stronger,  day 

by  day  ; 
I  hear  the  soul  of  Man  around  me  wak- 

Like  a  great  sea,    its    frozen    fetters 

breaking, 
And  flinging  up  to  heaven  its  sunlit 

spray, 


Tossinghuge  con tinentsin  scornful  play, 
And  crushing  them,  with  din  of  grind- 
ing thunder, 
That   makes   old  emptinesses  stare  in 

wonder ; 
The  memory  of  a  glory  passed  away 
Lingers  in  every  heart,  as,  in  the  shell, 
Resounds  the  bygone  freedom  of  the  sea, 
And,   every  hour  new  signs  of  promise 

tell 
That  the  great  soul  shall  once  again  be 

free, 
For  high,  and  yet  more  high,  the  mur- 
murs swell 
Of  inward  strife  for  truth  and  liberty. 

1841. 

XIII. 

Beloved,  in  the  noisy  city  here, 
The  thought  of  thee  can  make  all  tur- 
moil cease  ; 
Around  my  spirit,  folds  thy  spirit  clear 
Its  still,   soft  arms,  and  circles  it  with 

peace ; 
There  is  no  room  for  any  doubt  or  fear 
In  souls  so  overfilled  with   love's  in- 
crease, 
There  is  no  memory  of  the  bygone  year 
But  growth  in  heart's  and  spirit's  per- 
fect ease  : 
How  hath  our  love,  half  nebulousatfirst, 
Rounded  itself  into  a  full-orbed  sun  ! 
How  have  our  lives  and  wills  (as  haply 

erst 
They  were,  ere  this  forgetfulness  begun) 
Through   all  their  earthly  distantness 

outburst, 
And  melted,  like  two  rays  of  light,  in 
one  1 
1842.  


XIV. 


ON  READING  WORDSWORTH'S  SON- 
NETS  IN  DEFENCE  OF  CAPITAL 
PUNISHMENT. 

As  the  broad  ocean  endlessly  upheaveth, 
With  the  majestic  beating  of  his  heart, 
The  mighty  tides,  whereof  its  rightful 
part 


SONNETS. 


Each  sea-wide  bay  and  little  weed  re- 

ceiveth, — 
So,  through  his  soul  who  earnestly  be- 

lieveth, 
Life  from  the  universal  Heart  dotli  flow, 
Whereby  some  conquest  of  the  eternal 

Woe, 
By  instinct  of  God's  nature,  he  achiev- 

eth  : 
A  fuller  pulse  ofthis  all-powerful  beauty 
Into  the  poet's  gulf-like  heart  doth  tide, 
And  he  more  keenly  feels  the  glorious 

duty 
Of  serving  Truth,  despised  and  cruci- 
fied,— 
Happy,  unknowing  sect  or  creed,  to  rest 
And  feel  God  flow  forever  through  his 

breast. 

1842. 


XV. 


THE   SAME  CONTINUED. 

•Once  hardly  in  a  cycle  blossometh 

A  flower-like  soul  ripe  with  the  seeds  of 

song, 
A    spirit   foreordained     to    cope   with 

wrong, 
Whose  divine  thoughts  are  natural  as 

breath, 
Who  the  old  Darkness  thicklyscattereth 
With  starry  words,  that  shoot  prevail- 
ing light 
Into  the  deeps,   and  wither,  with  the 

blight 
Of  serene  Truth,  the  coward  heart  of 

Death  : 
Woe,  if  such  spirit  thwart  its  errand  high, 
And  mock  with  lies  the  longing  soul  of 

man  1 
Yet  one  age  longer  must  true  Culture  lie, 
Soothing  her  bitter  fetters  as  she  can, 
Until  new  messages  of  love  outstart 
At  the  next  beating  of  the  infinite  Heart. 


XVI. 

THE   SAME  CONTINUED. 

The  love  of  all  things  springs  from 

love  of  one  ; 
Wider  the  soul's  horizon  hourly  grows, 


And  over  it  with  fuller  glory  flows 
The  sky-like  spirit  of  God  ;  a  hope  begun 
In  doubt  and  darkness  'neath  a   fairer 

sun 
Cometh  to  fruitage,  if  it  be  of  Truth  ; 
And  to  the  law  of  meekness,  faith,  and 

ruth, 
By  inward  sympathy,  shall  all  be  won  : 
This   thou   shouldst  know,  who,  from 

the  painted  feature 
Of  shifting  Fashion,  couldst  thy  breth- 
ren turn 
Unto  the  love  of  ever-youthful  Nature, 
And  of  a  beauty  fadeless  and  eterne  ; 
And  always  't  is  the  saddest  sight  to  see 
An  old  man  faithless  in  Humanity. 


XVII. 


THE   SAME   CONTINUED. 

A  poet  cannot  strive  for  despotism  ; 
His   harp   falls   shattered ;  for   it    still 

must  be 
The  instinct  of  great  spirits  to  be  free. 
And  the  swoni  foes  of  cunning  barba- 
rism : 
He,  who  has  deepest  searched  the  wide 

abysm 
Of  that  life-giving  Soul  which  men  call 

fate, 
Knows  that  to  put  more  faith  in  lies 

and  hate 
Than  truth  and  love  is  the  true  atheism  : 
Upward  the  soul  forever  turns  her  eyes  ; 
The  next  hour  always  shames  the  hour 

before ; 
One  beauty,  at  its  highest,  prophesies 
That  by  whose  side  it  shall  seem  mean 

and  poor 
No  Godlike  thing  knows  aught  of  less 

and  less, 
But  widens  to  the  boundless  Perfectness. 


XVIII. 

THE   SAME  CONTINUED. 

Therefore  think  not  the  Past  is  wise 

alone, 
For  Yesterday  knows  nothing  of  ths 

Best, 


SONNETS. 


And  thou  shalt  love  it  only  as  the  nest 
Whence  glory-winged  things  to  Heaven 

have  flown  : 
To  the  great  Soul  alone  are  all  things 

known  ; 
Present  and  future  are  to  her  as  past, 
While   she   in  glorious  madness   doth 

forecast 
That  perfect  bud,  which  seems  a  flower 

full-blown 
To  each  new  Prophet,  and  yet  always 

opes 
Fuller  and  fuller  with  each  day  and  hour, 

Heartening  the  soul  with  odor  of  fresh 

hopes, 
And   longings   high,   and  gushings  of 

wide  power, 
Yet  never  is  or  shall  be  fully  blown 
Save  in  the  forethought  of  the  Eternal 

One. 


XIX. 


THE   SAME   CONTINUED. 

Far  'yond  this  narrow  parapet  of  Time, 
With  eyes  uplift,  the  poet's  soul  should 

look 
Into  the  Endless  Promise,  nor  should 

brook 
One  prying  doubt  to  shake  his  faith 

sublime  ; 
To  him  the  earth  is  ever  in  her  prime 
And  dewiness  of  morning  ;  he  can  see 
Good  lying  hid,  from  all  eternity, 
Within  the  teeming  womb  of  sin  and 

crime  ; 
His  soul  should  not  be  cramped  by  any 

bar, 
His  nobleness  should  be  so  Godlike 

high, 
That  his  least  deed  is  perfect  as  a  star, 
His  common  look  majestic  as  the  sky, 
And  all  o'erflooded  with  a  light  from  far, 
Undimmed  by  clouds  of  weak  mortality. 


XX. 

TO   M.   O.    S. 

Mary,  since  first  I  knew  thee,  to  this 

hour, 
My  love  hath  deepened,  with  my  wiser 


Of  what  in  Woman  is  to  reverence  ; 

Thy  clear  heart,  fresh  as  e'er  was  forest- 
flower, 

Still  opens  more  to  me  its  beauteous 
dower  ;  — 

But  let  praise  hush,  —  Love  asks  no 
evidence 

To  prove  itself  well-placed ;  we  know 
not  whence 

It  gleans  the  straws  that  thatch  its  hum- 
ble bower : 

We  can  but  say  we  found  it  in  the 
heart, 

Spring  of  all  sweetest  thoughts,  arch  foe 
of  blame, 

Sower  of  flowers  in  the  dusty  mart, 

Pure  vestal  of  the  poet's  holy  flame,  — 

This  is  enough,  and  we  have  done  our 
part 

If  we  but  keep  it  spotless  as  it  came. 

1842. 


XXI. 

Our    love    is    not    a    fading,    earthly 

flower: 
Its  winged   seed  dropped  down  from 

Paradise, 
And,  nursed  by  day  and  night,  by  sun 

and  shower, 
Doth    momently    to    fresher    beauty 

rise  : 
To    us    the    leafless    autumn    is    not 

bare, 
Nor  winter's  rattling  boughs  lack  lusty 

green. 
Our  summer  hearts  make    summer  s 

fulness,  where 
No  leaf,  or  bud,  or  blossom  may  be 

seen  : 
For  nature's  life  in  love's  deep  life  doth 

lie, 
Love,  —  whose  forgetfulness  is  beauty  s 

death, 
Whose  mystic  key  these  cells  of  Thou 

and  I 
Into  the  infinite  freedom  oj;eneth, 
And  makes  the  body's  dark  and  narrow 

grate 
The   wind-flung    leaves    of   Heaven's 

palace-gate. 
1842. 


SONNE  rs. 


'13 


XXII. 


IN   ABSENCE. 


These  rugged,   wintry  days  I  scarce 

could  bear. 
Did  I  not  know,  that,  in  the  early  spring, 
When  wild  March  winds   upon   their 

errands  sing, 
Thou  wouldst  return,  bursting  on  this 

still  air, 
Like  those  same  winds,  when,  startled 

from  their  lair, 
They  hunt  up  violets,  and  free   swift 

brooks, 
From  icy  cares,  even  as  thy  clear  looks 
Bid   my   heart  bloom,   and   sing,   and 

break  all  care : 
When  drops  with   welcome    rain    the 

April  day, 
My   flowers   shall   find   their  April  in 

thine  eyes, 
Save  there  the  rain   in   dreamy   clouds 

doth  stay, 
As  loath  to  fall  out  of  those  happy  skies; 
Yet  sure,  my  love,  thou  art  most  like  to 

May, 
That  comes  with  steady  sun  when  April 

dies. 

1843-  


XXIII. 


WENDELL   PHILLIPS. 

He    stood    upon    the    world's    broad 

threshold  ;  wide 
The  din  of  battle  and  of  slaughter  rose  ; 
He  saw  God  stand  upon  the  weaker 

side, 
That  sank  in  seeming  loss  before  its 

foes  ; 
Many  there  were  who  made  great  haste 

and  sold 
Unto  the  cunning  enemy  their  swords, 
He  scorned  their  gifts   of  fame,    and 

power,  and  gold, 
And,  underneath  their  soft  and  flowery 

words, 
Heard  the  cold  serpent  hiss  ;  therefore 

he  went 
And  humbly  joined  him  to  the  weaker 

part, 

8 


Fanatic  named,  and  fool,  yet  well  con- 
tent 

So  he  could  be  the  nearer  to  God's 
heart, 

And  feel  its  solemn  pulses  sending 
blood 

Through  all  the  wide-spread  veins  of 
endless  good. 


XXIV. 

THE  STREET. 

They  pass  me  by  like  shadows,  crowds 

on  crowds, 
Dim  ghosts  of  men,  that  hover  to  and 

fro, 
Hugging  their  bodies  round  them  like 

thin  shrouds 
Wherein  their  souls  were  buried  long 

ago: 
They   trampled   on   their    youth,   and 

faith,  and  love, 
They  cast   their  hope   of   human-kind 

away, 
With    Heaven's   clear  messages   they 

madly  strove, 
And     conquered,  —  and    their    spirits 

turned  to  clay  : 
Lo  !  how  they  wander  round  the  world, 

their  grave, 
Whose  ever-gaping  maw  by  such  is  fed, 
Gibbering  at  living  men,  and  idly  rave, 
"  We.only,  truly  live,  but  ye  are  dead." 
Alas  !     poor   fools,  the   anointed    eye 

may  trace 
A  dead  soul's  epitaph  in  every  face  ! 


XXV. 


I  grieve  not  that  ripe  Knowledge 
takes  away 

The  charm  that  Nature  to  my  child- 
hood wore, 

For,  with  that  insight,  Cometh,  day  by 
day, 

A  greater  bliss  than  wonder  was  before  ; 

The  real  doth  not  clip  the  poet's 
wings,  — 

To  win  the  secret  of  a  weed's  plain  heart 


ii4 


SONNE  TS. 


Reveals  some  clew  to  spiritual  things, 
And   stumbling   guess    becomes   firm- 
footed  art : 
Flowers  are  not  flowers  unto  the  poet's 

eyes, 
Their  beauty  thrills  him  by  an  inward 

sense  ; 
He  knows  that  outward  seemings  are 

but  lies, 
Or,  at  the  most,  but  earthly  shadows, 

whence 
The  soul  that  looks  within  for  truth 

may  guess 
The  presence  of  some  wondrous  heav- 

enliness. 


XXVI. 


TO  J.   R.   GIDDINGS. 

Giddings,    far    rougher    names    than 

thine  have  grown 
Smoother  than  honeyon  thelipsofmen; 
And    thou     shalt    aye    be    honorably 

known, 
As  one  who  bravely  used  his  tongue 

and  pen, 
As  best  befits  a  freeman,  —  even  for 

those, 
To  whom  our  Law's  unblushing  front 

denies 
A  right  to  plead  against  the  life-long 

woes 
Which   are    the    Negro's    glimpse   of 

Freedom's  skies  : 
Fear  nothing,  and  hope  all  things,  as 

the  Right 
Alone  may  do  securely  ;  every  hour 
The  thrones  of  Ignorance  and  ancient 

Night 
Lose  somewhat  of  their  long  usurped 

power, 
And  Freedom's  lightest  word  can  make 

them  shiver 
With  a  base  dread  that  clings  to  them 

forever. 


XXVII. 

I  thought  ourlove  at  full,  but  I  did  err , 
Joy's  wreath  drooped  o'er  mine  eyes; 
I  could  not  see 


That  sorrow  in  our  happy  world  must  be 

Love's  deepest  spokesmau  and  inter- 
preter ? 

But,  as  a  mother  feels  her  child  first 
stir 

Under  her  heart,  so  felt  I  instantly 

Deep  in  my  soul  another  bond  to  thee 

Thrill  with  that  life  we  saw  depart  frorm 
her ; 

O  mother  of  our  angel  child  !  twice 
dear  ! 

Death  knits  as  well  as  parts,  and  still, 
I  wis, 

Her  tender  radiance  shall  infold  us 
here, 

Even  as  the  light,  borne  up  by  inward 
bliss, 

Threads  the  void  glooms  of  space  with- 
out a  fear, 

To  print  on  farthest  stars  her  pitying 
kiss. 


L'ENVOI. 

Whether  my  heart  hath  wiser  grown 

or  not. 
In  these  three  years,  since   I   to  thee 

inscribed, 
Mine  own  betrothed,  the  firstlings  of 

my  muse,  — 
Poor  windfalls  of  unripe  experience, 
Young  buds  plucked  hastily  by  child- 
ish hands 
Not  patient  to  await  more  full-blown 

flowers,  — 
At  least  it  hath  seen  more  of  life  and 

men, 
And  pondered  more,  and  grown  a  shade 

more  sad ; 
Yet  with   no   loss   of  hope  or  settled 

trust 
In  the  benignness  of  that  Providence, 
Which  shapes  from  out  our  elements 

awry 
The  grace  and  order  that  we  wonder  at, 
The    mystic    harmony    of    right    and 

wrong, 
Both  working  out  His  wisdom  and  our 

good  : 
A  trust,  Beloved,  chiefly  learned  of  thee, 
Who  hast  that  gift  of  pat'ent  tenderness, 
The  instinctive  wisdom  of  a  woman'* 

heart. 


V EN  VOL 


"S 


They  tell  us  that  our  land  was  made 

for  song, 
With  its  huge  rivers  and  sky-piercing 

peaks, 
Its  sealike  lakes  and  mighty  cataracts, 
Its  forests  vast  and  hoar,  and  prairies 

wide, 
And   mounds    that    tell    of   wondrous 

tribes  extinct. 
But  Poesy  springs  not  from  rocks  and 

woods ; 
Her  womb  and  cradle  are  the  human 

heart, 
And  she  can  find  a  nobler  theme  for 

song 
In  the  most  loathsome  man  that  blasts 

the  sight 
Than   in  the  broad  expanse  of  sea  and 

shore 
Between  the  frozen  deserts  of  the  poles. 
All  nations  have  their  message  from  on 

high, 
Each    the    messiah   of   some    central 

thought, 
For  the  fulfilment  and  delight  of  Man  : 
One  has  to  teach  that  labor  is  divine  ; 
Another  Freedom  ;  and  another  Mind  ; 
And  all,  that  God  is  open-eyed   and 

just, 
The  happy  centre  and  calm  heart  of  all. 

Are,  then,  our  woods,  our  mountains, 

and  our  streams, 
Needful   to    teach  our    poets  how  to 

sing? 
O  maiden  rare,  far  other  thoughts  were 

ours, 
When  we  have  sat  by  ocean's  foaming 

marge, 
And  watched  the  waves  leap  roaring  on 

the  rocks, 
Than  young  Leander  and  his  Hero  had, 
Gazing  from  Sestos  to  the  other  shore. 
The  moon  looks  down  and  ocean  wor- 
ships her, 
Stars  rise  and  set,  and  seasons  come 

and  go 
Even   as   they  did   in   Homer's  elder 

time. 
But  we  behold  them  not  with  Grecian 

eyes  : 
Then  they  were  types  of  beauty  and  of 

strength, 
But  now  of  freedom,  uuconfined  and 

pure, 


Subject  alone  to  Order's  higher  law. 

What  cares  the  Russian  serf  or  South- 
ern slave 

Though  we  should  speak  as  man  spake 
never  yet 

Of  gleaming  Hudson's  broad  magnifi- 
cence, 

Or  green  Niagara's  never-ending  roar? 

Our  country  hath  a  gospel  of  her  own 

To  preach  and  practise  before  all  the 
world,  — 

The  freedom  and  divinity  of  man, 

The  glorious  claims  of  human  brother- 
hood, — 

Which  to  pay  nobly,  as  a  freeman 
should, 

Gains  the  sole  wealth  that  will  not  fly 
away,  — 

And  the  soul's  fealty  to  none  but  God. 

These  are  realities,  which  make  the 
shows 

Of  outward  Nature,  be  they  ne'er  so 
grand, 

Seem  small,  and  worthless,  and  con- 
temptible. 

These  are  the  mountain-summits  for 
our  bards, 

Which  stretch  far  upward  into  heaven 
itself, 

And  give  such  wide-spread  and  exult- 
ing view 

Of  hope,  and  faith,  and  onward  des- 
tiny, 

That  shrunk  Parnassus  to  a  molehill 
dwindles. 

Our  new  Atlantis,  like  a  morning-star, 

Silvers  the  murk  face  of  slow-yielding 
Night, 

The  herald  of  a  fuller  truth  than  yet 

Hath  gleamed  upon  the  upraised  face 
of  Man 

Since  the  earth  glittered  in  her  stain- 
less prime,  — 

Of  a  more  glorious  sunrise  than  of  old 

Drew  wondrous  melodies  from  Mem- 
non  huge. 

Yea,  draws  them  still,  though  now  he 
sits  waist-deep 

In  the  ingulfing  flood  of  whirling  sand, 

And  looks  across  the  wastes  of  endless 
gray, 

Sole  wreck,  where  once  his  hundred- 
gated  Thebes 

Pained  with  her  mighty  hum  the  calm, 
blue  heaven : 


n6 


V  ENVOI. 


Shall  the  dull  stone  pay  grateful  ori- 
sons, 

And  we  till  noonday  bar  the  splendor 
out, 

Lest  it  reproach  and  chide  our  sluggard 
hearts, 

Warm-nestled  in  the  down  of  Preju- 
dice, 

And  be  content,  though  clad  with  an- 
gel-wings, 

Close-clipped,  to  hop  about  from  perch 
to  perch, 

In  paltry  cages  of  dead  men's  dead 
thoughts  ? 

O,  rather,  like  the  skylark,  soar  and 
sing, 

And  let  our  gushing  songs  befit  the 
dawn 

And  sunrise,  and  the  yet  unshaken  dew 

Brimming  the  chaliceof  each  full-blown 
hope, 

Whose  blithe  front  turns  to  greet  the 
growing  day  ! 

Never  had  poets  such  high  call  before, 

Never  can  poets  hope  for  higher  one, 

And,  if  they  be  but  faithful  to  their  trust, 

Earth  will  remember  them  with  love 
and  joy, 

And  O,  far  better,  God  will  not  forget. 

For  he  who  settles  Freedom's  prin- 
ciples 

Writes  the  death-warrant  of  all  ty- 
ranny ; 

Who  speaks  the  truth  stabs  Falsehood 
to  the  heart, 

And  his  mere  word  makes  despots  trem- 
ble more 

Than  ever  Brutus  with  his  dagger 
could. 

Wait  for  no  hints  from  waterfalls  or 
woods. 

Nor  dream  that  tales  of  red  men,  brute 
and  fierce, 

Repay  the  finding  of  this  Western 
World, 

Or  needed  half  the  globe  to  give  them 
birth  : 

Spirit  supreme  of  Freedom !  not  for 
this 

Did  great  Columbus  tame  his  ea^le  soul 

To  jostle  with  the  daws  that  perch  in 
courts  ; 

Not  for  this,  friendless,  on  an  unknown 
sea, 


Coping  with  mad  waves  and  more  mil 

tinous  spirits, 
Battled  he  with  the  dreadful  ache  at 

heart 
Which  tempts,  with  devilish  subtleties 

of  doubt, 
The  hermit  of  that  loneliest  solitude, 
The    silent    desert    of   a    great    New 

Thought ; 
Though    loud    Niagara    were    to-day 

struck  dumb, 
Yet  would  this  cataract  of  boiling  life 
Rush  plunging  on  and  on  to  endless 

deeps, 
And  utter  thunder  till  the  world  shall 

cease,  — 
A  thunder  worthy  of  the  poet's  song, 
And  which  alone  can  fill  it  with  true 

life. 
The  high  evangel  to  our  country  granted 
Could  make  apostles,  yea,  with  tongues 

of  fire, 
Of  hearts  half-darkened  back  again  to 

clay  ! 
'T  is  the  soul  only  that  is  national, 
And  he  who  pays  true  loyalty  to  that 
Alone  can  claim  the  wreath  of  patriot- 
ism. 

Beloved  !  if  I  wander  far  and  oft 
From  that  which  I  believe,  and  feel, 

and  know, 
Thou  wilt  forgive,  not  with  a  sorrow- 
ing heart, 
But  with  a  strengthened  hope  of  better 

things  ; 
Knowing   that   I,  though   often  blind 

and  false 
To  those  1  love,  and  O,  more  false  than 

all 
Unto  myself,  have  been  most  true  to 

thee, 
And  that  whoso  in  one  thing  hath  been 

true 
Can  be  as  true  in  all.     Therefore  thy 

hope 
May  yet  not  prove  unfruitful,  and  thy 

love 
Meet,  day  by  day,  with  less  unworthy 

thanks, 
Whether,  as  now,  we  journey  hand  in 

hand, 
Or,  parted  in  the  body,  yet  are  one 
In  spirit  and  the  love  of  holy  things. 


THE  VISION   OF   SIR  LAUNFAL. 


PRELUDE  TO  PART  FIRST. 

Over  his  keys  the  musing  organist, 

Beginning  doubtfully  and  far  away, 
First  lets  his  fingers  wander  as  they  list, 
And  builds  a  bridge  from  Dreamland 
for  his  lay  : 
Then,  as  the  touch  of  his  loved  instru- 
ment 
Gives  hope  and  fervor,  nearer  draws 
his  theme, 
Virst  guessed  by  faint  auroral  flushes 
sent 
Along  the  wavering  vista  of  his  dream. 


Not  only  around  our  infancy 
Doth  heaven  with  all  itsspleiidorslie; 
Daily,  with  souls  that  cringe  and  plot, 
We  Sinais  climb  and  know  it  not. 

Over  our  manhood  bend  the  skies  ; 

Against  our  fallen  and  traitor  lives 
The  great  winds  utter  prophecies  ; 

With  our  faint  hearts  the  mountain 
strives, 
Its  arms  outstretched,  the  druid  wood 

Waits  with  its  benedicite  , 
And  to  our  age's  drowsy  blood 

Still  shouts  the  inspiring  sea. 

Earth  gets  its  price  for  what   Earth 
gives  us  ; 
The  beggar  is  taxed  for  a  corner  to 
die  in, 
The  priest  hath  his  fee  who  comes  and 
shrives  us, 
We  bargain  for  the  graves  we  lie  in  ; 
At  the  devil's  booth  are  all  things  sold, 
Each  ounce  of  dross  costs  its  ounce  of 
gold; 
For  a  cap  and  belis  our  lives  we 

pay. 


Bubbles  we  buy  with  a  whole   soul's 
tasking : 
'T  is  heaven  alone  that  is  given  away, 

'T  is  only  God  may  be  had  for  the  ask- 
ing, 

No  price  is  set  on  the  lavish  summer ; 

June  may  be  had  by  the  poorest  comer. 

And  what  is  so  rare  as  a  day  in  June  ? 

Then,  if  ever,  come  perfect  days  ; 
Then  Heaven  tries  the  earth  if  it  be  in 
tune, 
And  over  it  softly  her  warm  ear  lays  : 
Whether  we  look,  or  whether  we  listen. 
We  hear  life  murmur,  or  see  it  glisten  ; 
Every  clod  feels  a  stir  of  might, 
An  instinct  within  it  that  reaches  and 
towers, 
And,  groping  blindly  above  it  for  light, 
Climbs  to  a  soul  in  grass  and  flowers ; 
The  flush  of  life  may  well  be  seen 

Thrilling  back  over  hills  and  valleys  ; 
The  cowslip  startles  in  meadows  green, 
The  buttercup  catches  the  sun  in  its 
chalice, 
And  there  's  never  a  leaf  nor  a  blade 
too  mean 
To  be  some  happy  creature's  palace  ; 
The  little  bird  sits  at  hisdoorin  the  sun, 
Atiltlike  a  blossom  among  the  leaves, 
And  lets  his  illumined  being  o'errun 
With   the  deluge   of  summer  it  re- 
ceives ; 
His  mate  feels  the  eggs  beneath  her 

wings, 
And  the  heart  in  her  dumb  breast  flut- 
ters and  sings  ; 
He  sings  to  the  wide  world,  and  she  to 

her  nest,  — 
In  the  nice  earofNature  which  song  is 
the  best  ? 

Now  is  the  high-tide  of  the  year, 
And  whatever  of  life  hath  ebbed  away 


n8 


THE    VISION  OF  SIR  LA  UNFA  L. 


Comes  flooding  back  with  a  ripply  cheer, 
Into  every  bare  inlet  and  creek  and 
bay  ; 

Now  the  heart  is  so  full  that  a  drop 
overfills  it, 

We  are  happy  now  because  God  wills 
it; 

No  matter  how  barren  the  past  may 
have  been, 

'Tis  enough  for  us  now  that  the  leaves 
are  green  ; 

We  sit  in  the  warm  shade  and  feel  right 
well 

How  the  sap  creeps  up  and  the  blos- 
soms swell ; 

We  may  shut  our  eyes,  but  we  cannot 
help  knowing 

That  skies  are  clear  and  grass  is  grow- 
ls ' 

The  breeze  comes  whispering  in  our  ear, 

That  dandelions  are  blossoming  near, 
That  maize  has  sprouted,  that  streams 
are  flowing, 
That  the  river  is  bluer  than  the  sky, 
That  the  robin  is  plastering  his  house 

hard  by  ; 
And  if  the  breeze  kept  the  good  news 

back, 
For  other  couriers  we  should  not  lack  ; 
We  could  guess  it  all  by  yon  heifer's 
lowing,  — 
And  hark  !  how  clear  bold  chanticleer, 
Warmed  with  the  new  wine  of  the  year, 
Tells  all  in  his  lusty  crowing  ! 

Joy  comes,  grief  goes,  we  know  not  how ; 
Everything  is  happy  now, 

Everything  is  upward  striving  ; 
'T  isas  easy  now  for  the  heart  to  be  true 
As  for  grass  to  be  green  or  skies  to  be 
blue,  — 
'T  is  the  natural  way  of  living : 
Who  knows  whither  the   clouds  have 
fled  r 
In  the  unscarred  heaven  they  leave 
no  wake ; 
And  the  eyes  forget  the  tears  they  have 
shed, 
The  heart  forgets  its  sorrow  and  ache  ; 
The  soul  partakes  the  season's  youth, 
And  the  sulphurous  rifts  of  passion 
and  woe 
Lie   deep    neath  a  silence  pure  and 
smooth, 


Like  burnt-out  craters  healed  with- 
snow. 
What  wonder  if  Sir  Launfal  now 
Remembered  the  keeping  of  his  vow? 


PART   FIRST. 


"  My  golden  spurs  now  bring  to  me, 
And  bring  to  me  my  richest  mail, 
For  to-morrow  I  go  over  land  and  sea 

In  search  of  the  Holy  Grail  : 
Shall  never  a  bed  for  me  be  spread, 
Nor  shall  a  pillow  be  under  my  head, 
Till  I  begin  my  vow  to  keep  ; 
Here  on  the  rushes  will  I  sleep, 
And  perchance  there  may  come  a  visios 

true 
Ere  day  create  the  world  anew." 
Slowly  Sir  ilaunfal's  eyes  grew  dim. 
Slumber  fell  like  a  cloud  on  him, 
And  into  his  soul  the  vision  flew. 


The  crows  flapped  over  by  twos  am 

threes, 
In  the   pool  drowsed  the  cattle  up  to 
their  knees, 
The  little  birds  sang  as  if  it  were 
The  one  day  of  summer  in  all  tha 
year, 
And  the  very  leaves  seemed  to  sing  on 

the  trees  : 
The  castle  alone  in  the  landscape  lay 
Like   an   outpost  of  winter,  dull  and 

gray; 
'T  was  the  proudest  hall  in  the  North 

Countree, 
And  never  its  gates  might  opened  bo, 
Save  to  lord  or  lady  of  high  degree  : 
Summer  besieged  it  on  every  side, 
But  the  churlish  stone  her  assaults  de- 
fied ; 
She  could  not  scale  the  chilly  wall, 
Though  around  it  for  leagues  her  pa- 
vilions tall 
Stretched  left  and  right, 
Over  the  hills  and  out  of  sight ; 
Green  and  broad  was  every  tent, 
And  out  of  each  a  murmur  went 
Till  the  breeze  fell  off  at  night. 


THE    VrlS10N  OF  SIR  LA  UNFA L. 


119 


The  drawbridge  dropped  with  a  surly 

clang, 
And  through  the  dark  arch  a  charger 

sprang, 
Bearing  Sir  Launfal,  the  maiden  knight, 
In  his  gilded  mail,  that  flamed  so  bright 
It  seemed  the  dark  castle  had  gathered 

all 
Those  shafts  the  fierce  sun  had  shot 

over  its  wall 
In  his  siege  of  three  hundred  sum- 
mers long, 
And,  binding  them  all  in  one  blazing 

sheaf, 
Had  cast  them  forth  :  so,  young  and 

strong, 
And  lightsome  as  a  locust-leaf, 
Sir   Launfal   flashed   forth  in   his   un- 

scarred  mail, 
To  seek  in  all  climes  for  the  Holy  Grail. 


It  was  morning  on  hill  and  stream  and 
tree, 
And  morning  in  the  young  knight's 
heart : 
Only  the  castle  moodily 
Rebuffed  the  gifts  of  the  sunshine  free, 

And  gloomed  by  itself  apart ; 
The  season  brimmed  all  other  things 

up 
Full  as  the  rain  fills  the  pitcher-plant's 
cup. 


As  Sir  Launfal  made  morn  through  the 
darksome  gate, 
He   was  'ware  of  a  leper,  crouched 
by  the  same. 
Who  begged  with  his  hand  and  moaned 
as  he  sate  ; 
And   a   loathing   over    Sir    Launfal 
came  ; 
The  sunshine  went  out  of  his  soul  with 
a  thrill, 
The    flesh   'neath   his    armor    'gan 
shrink  and  crawl, 
And  midway  its  leap  his  heart  stood  stili 

Like  a  frozen  waterfall ; 
For  this  man,  so  foul  and  bent  of  stature, 
Rasped  harshly  against  his  dainty  na- 
ture, 


And  seemed  the  one  blot  on  the  sum- 
mer morn,  — 

So  he  tossed  him  a  piece  of  gold  in 
scorn. 

VI. 

The  leper  raised  not  the  gold  from  the 

dust : 
"  Better  to  me  the  poor  man's  crust, 
Better  the  blessing  of  the  poor, 
Though  I  turn  me  empty  from  his  door  : 
That  is  no  true  alms  which  the   hand 

can  hold  ; 
He  gives  nothing  but  worthless  gold 

Who  gives  from  a  sense  of  duty  ; 
But  he  who  gives  a  slender  mite, 
And  gives  to  that  which  is  out  of  sight, 
That    thread    of   the    all-sustaining 

Beauty 
Which  runs  through  all  and  doth  all 

unite,  — 
The  hand  cannot  clasp  the  whole  of  his 

alms, 
The  heart  outstretches  its  eager  palms, 
For  a  god  goes  with  it  and  makes  it 

store 
To  the  soul  that  was  starving  in  dark- 
ness before.  " 


PRELUDE   TO   PART   SFXOND. 

Down  swept  the  chill  wind  from  the 
mountain  peak, 
From  the  snow  five  thousand  sum- 
mers old  ; 

On  open  wold  and  hill-top  bleak 
It  had  gathered  all  the  cold, 

And  whirled  it  like   sleet  on  the  wan- 
derer's cheek  ; 

It  earned  a  shiver  everywhere 

From  the  unleafed  boughs  and  pastures 
bare  ; 

The  little  brook  heard  it  and  built  a 
roof 

'Neath  which  he  could  house  him,  win- 
ter-proof; 

All   night   by   the   white  stars'    frosty 
gleams 

He  groined  his  arches  and  matched  his 
beams  ; 

Slender  and  clear  were  his  crystal  spars 

As   the    lashes  of  light  that  trim   the 
stars  : 


THE    VISION  OF  SIR  LA  UNFA  L. 


He  sculptured  every  summer  delight 

In  his  halls  and  chambers  out  of  sight ; 

Sometimes  his  tinkling  waters  slipt 

Down   through   a    frost-leaved  forest- 
crypt, 

Long,  sparkling  aisles  of  steel-stemmed 
trees 

Bending  to  counterfeit  a  breeze  ; 

Sometimes  the  roof  no  fretwork  knew 

But  silvery  mosses  that  downward  grew ; 

Sometimes  it  was  carved  in  sharp  relief 

With  quaint  arabesques  of  ice-fern  leaf; 

Sometimes  it  was  simply  smooth  and 
clear 

For  the  gladness  of  heaven  to  shine 
through,  and  here 

He  had  caught  the  nodding  bulrush- 
tops 

And  hung  them  thickly  with  diamond 
drops, 

That  crystalled  the  beams  of  moon  and 
sun, 

And  made  a  star  of  every  one  : 

No  mortal  builder's  most  rare  device 

Could  match  this  winter-palace  of  ice  ; 

'T  was  as  if  every  image  that  mirrored 
lay 

In  his  depths  serene  through  the  sum- 
mer day, 

Each  fleeting  shadow  of  earth  and  sky. 
Lest  the  happy  model  should  be  lost, 

Had  been  mimicked  in  fairy  masonry 
By  the  elfin  builders  of  the  frost. 

Within  the  hall  are  song  and  laughter, 

The   cheeks  of  Christmas  glow  red 

and  jolly, 

And  sprouting  is  every  corbel  and  rafter 

With   lightsome  green   of   ivy    and 

holly  ; 

Through  the  deep  gulf  of  the  chimney 

wide 
Wallows  the  Yule-log's  roaring  tide  ; 
The  broad    flame-pennons   droop  and 
flap 
And  belly  and  tug  as  a  flag  in  the 
wind ; 
Like  a  locust  shrills   the   imprisoned 
sap, 
Hunted    to    death    in    its   galleries 
blind ; 
And  swift  little  troops  of  silent  sparks, 
Now  pausing,  now  scattering  away 
as  in  fear, 


Go  threading  the  soot-forest's  tangled 
darks 
Like  herds  of  startled  deer. 

But  the  wind  without  was  eager  and 

sharp, 
Of  Sir  Launfal's  gray  hair  it  makes  » 
harp, 
And  rattles  and  wrings 
The  icy  strings, 
Singing,  in  dreary  monotone, 
A  Christmas  carol  of  its  own, 
Whose    burden    still,    as    he    mighi 

guess, 
Was —  "  Shelterless,  shelterless,  shel- 
terless ! " 
The  voice  of  the  seneschal  flared  like  a 

torch 
As  he  shouted  the  wanderer  away  from 

the  porch, 
And  he  sat  in  the  gateway  and  saw  all 
night 
The  great   hall-fire,  so  cheery  anrf 

bold, 
Through  the  window-slits  of  the  cas' 
tie  old, 
Build  out  its  piers  of  ruddy  light 
Against  the  drift  of  the  cold. 


PART  SECOND. 


There  was  never  a  leaf  on  bush  o, 

tree, 
The  bare  boughs  rattled  shudderingly  i 
The   river  was   numb   and  could   not 

speak, 
For  the  weaver  Winter   its  shroud) 

had  spun  ; 
A  single  crow  on  the  tree-top  bleak 
From  his  shining  feathers  shed  oft 

the  cold  sun  ; 
Again  it  was  morning,  but  shrunk  and 

cold, 
As  if  her  veins  were  sapless  and  old, 
And  she  rose  up  decrepitly 
For  a  last  dim  look  at  earth  and  sea. 


Sir  Launfai  turned  from  his  own  hard 

gate, 
For  another  heir  in  his  earldom  sate  ; 


THE    VISION  OF  SIR  LA  UNFA  L. 


1.1 


An  old,  bent  man,  worn  out  and  frail, 
He  came  back  from  seeking  the  Holy 

Grail  ; 
Little  he  recked  of  his  earldom's  loss, 
No  more  on  his  surcoat  was  blazoned 

the  cross, 
But  deep  in  his  soul  the  sign  he  wore, 
The  badge  of  the  suffering  and  the  poor. 


Sir  LaunfaPs  raiment  thin  and  spare 
Was  idle  mail  'gainst  the  barbed  ail, 
For  it  was  just  at  the  Christmas  time  ; 
So  he  mused,  as  he  sat,  of  a  sunnier 

clime, 
And  sought  for  a  shelter  from  cold  and 

snow 
In  the  light  and  warmth  of  long-ago  ; 
He  sees  the  snake-like  caravan  crawl 
O'er  the  edge  of  the  desert,  black  and 

small, 
Then  nearer  and  nearer,  till,  one  by 

one, 
He  can  count  the  camels  in  the  sun, 
As  over  the  red-hot  sands  they  pass 
To  where,  in  its  slender  necklace  of 

grass, 
The  little  spring  laughed  and  leapt  in 

the  shade, 
And  with   its  own  self  like  an  infant 

played, 
And  waved  its  signal  of  palms. 


"For  Christ's  sweet  sake,   1  beg   an 

alms";  — 
The    happy    camels    may    reach    the 

spring, 
But  Sir  Launfal  sees  only  the  grewsome 

thing, 
The  leper,  lank  as  the  rain-blanched 

bone, 
That  cowers  beside   him,  a  thing  as 

lone 
And  white  as  the  ice-isles  of  Northern 

seas 
In  the  desolate  horror  of  his  disease. 


And  Sir  Launfal  said,  —  "  I  behold  in 

thee 
An  image   of  Him  who  died  on   the 

tree  ; 


Thou    also    hast    had    thy  crown    of 

thorns,  — 
Thou  also  hast  had  the  world's  buffets 

and  scorns,  — 
And  to  thy  life  were  not  denied 
The  wounds  in  the  hands  and  feet  and 

side  : 
Mild  Mary's  Son,  acknowledge  me  ; 
Behold,  through  him,  1  give  to  thee  I" 


Then  the  soul  of  the  leper  stood  up  in 

his  eyes 
And    looked    at    Sir    Launfal,    and 

straightway  he 
Remembered  in  what  a  haughtier  guiss 

He  had  flung  an  alms  to  leprosie, 
When   he   girt   his   young   life   up   in 

gilded  mail 
And  set  forth  in  search  of  the  Holy 

Grail. 
The  heart  within  him  was  ashes  and 

dust  ; 
He  parted  in  twain  his  single  crust, 
He  broke  the  ice  on  the  streamlet's 

brink, 
And  gave  the  leper  to  eat  and  drink, 
'T  was  a  mouldy  crust  of  coarse  brown 

bread, 
'T  was  water  out  of  a  wooden  bowl,  — 
Yet  with  fine  wheaten  bread  was  the 

leper  fed, 
And  't  was  red  wine  he  drank  with 

his  thirsty  soul. 


As  Sir  Launfal  mused  with  a  downcast 

face, 
A  light  shone  round  about  the  place  ; 
The  leper  no  longer  crouched  at  his  side, 
But  stood  before  him  glorified, 
Shining  and  tall  and  fair  and  straight 
As  the  pillar  that  stood  by  the  Beauti- 
ful Gate,  — 
Himself  the  Gate  whereby  men  can 
Enter  the  temple  of  God  in  Man. 

VIII. 

His  words  were  shed  softer  than  leaves 

from  the  pine, 
And  they  fell  on  Sir  Launfal  as  snows 

on  the  brine, 


THE    VISION  OF  SIR  LA  UNFA  L. 


Which  mingle  their  softness  and  quiet 

in  one 
With  the  shaggy  unrest  they  float  down 

upon  ; 
And  the  voice  that  was  calmer  than 

silence  said, 
"  Lo  it  is  I,  be  not  afraid  ! 
In  many  climes,  without  avail, 
Thou  hast  spent  thy  life  for  the  Holy 

Grail  , 
Behold,  it  is  here,  —  this  cup  which  thou 
Didst  fill  at  the  streamlet  ior  me  but 

now  ; 
This  crust  is  my  body  broken  for  thee, 
This  water  His  blood  that  died  on  the 

tree  ; 
The  Holy  Supper  is  kept,  indeed, 
In   whatso    we    share   with   another's 

need  ; 
Not  what  we  give,  but  what  we  share,  — 
For  the  gift  without  the  giver  is  bare  ; 
Who  gives  himselt  with  his  alms  feeds 

three,  — 
Himself,  his  hungering  neighbor,  and 

me" 

IX. 

Sir  Launfal  awoke  as  from  a  swound  :  — 
"The  Grail  in  my  castle  here  is  found  ! 
Hang  my  idle  armor  up  on  the  wall, 
Let  it  be  the  spider's  banquet-hall  ; 
He  must  be  fenced  with  stronger  mail 
Who  would   seek  and   find  the   Holy 
Grail." 


The  castle  gate  stands  open  now, 
And  the  wanderer  is  welcome  to  the 

hall 
Ap    "tie   hangbird   is  to    the   elm-tree 

bough  ; 


No  longer  scowl  the  turrets  tall, 
The  Summer's  long  siege  at  last  jso'er ; 
When  the  first  poor  outcast  went  in  ai 

the  door, 
She  entered  with  him  in  disguise, 
And  mastered  the  lortress  by  surprise  ; 
There  is  no  spot  she  loves  so  well  on 

ground, 
She  lingers  and  smiles  there  the  whole 

year  round  ; 
The  meanest  serf  on  Sir  Launfal's  land 
Has  hall  and  bower  at  his  command  ; 
And  there  's  no  poor  man  in  the  North 

Countree 
But  is  lord  of  the  earldom  as  much  as 

he. 


NOTE.  —  According  to  the  mythology  of 
the  Romancers,  the  San  Greal,  or  Holy  Grail, 
was  the  cup  out  of  which  Jesus  partook  of 
the  last  supper  with  his  disciples.  It  was 
brought  into  England  by  Joseph  of  Arima- 
thea,  and  remained  there,  an  object  of  pil- 
grimage and  adoration,  for  many  years  in 
the  keeping  of  his  lineal  descendants.  It 
was  incumbent  upon  those  who  had  charge 
of  it  to  be  chaste  in  thought,  word,  and 
deed  ;  but  one  of  the  keepers  having  broken 
this  condition,  the  Holy  Grail  disappeared. 
From  that  time  it  was  a  favorite  enterprise 
of  the  knights  of  Arthur's  court  to  go  in 
search  of  it.  Sir  Galahad  was  at  last  suc- 
cessful in  finding  it,  as  may  be  read  in  the 
seventeenth  book  of  the  Romance  of  Kin^ 
Arthur.  Tennyson  has  made  Sir  Galahad 
the  subject  of  one  of  the  most  exquisite  of 
his  poems. 

The  plot  (if  I  may  give  that  name  to  any- 
thing so  slight)  of  the  foregoing  poem  is  my 
own,  and,  to  serve  its  purposes,  I  have  en- 
larged the  circle  of  competition  in  search  of 
the  miraculous  cup  in  such  a  manner  as  to  in- 
clude, not  only  other  persons  than  the  heroes 
of  the  Round  Table,  but  also  a  period  of 
time  subsequent  to  the  date  of  King  Arthur  s 
reign ! 


Reader  !  walk  up  at  once  {it  will  soon  be  too  late) 
and  buy  at  a  perfectly  ruinous  rate 


FABLE  FOR  CRITICS; 

OR,    BETTER, 

(/  like,  as  a  thing  that  the  reader's  first  fancy  may  strike, 

an  old-fashioned  title-page, 

such  as  presents  a  tabular  view  of  the  volume 's  contents,) 

A    GLANCE 

AT   A   FEW   OF   OUR   LITERARY   PROGENIES 
(Afrs.  Malaprop's  word) 

FROM 

THE   TUB   OF   DIOGENES; 
A    VOCAL    AND    MUSICAL    MEDLEY, 

THAT  IS, 

A   SERIES   OF  JOKES 

who  accompanies  himself  with  a  rttb-a- dub-dub,  full  of  spirit  and  grace, 
on  the  top  of  the  tub. 

Set  forth  in  October,  the  31st  day, 

In  the  year  '48,  G.  P.  Putnam,  Broadway. 


TO 

CHARLES   F.   BRIGGS, 

THIS  VOLUME  IS  AFFECTIONATELY   INSCRIBED. 


A   FABLE  FOR   CRITICS. 


1 2S 


It  being  the  commonest  mode  of  pro- 
cedure, I  premise  a  few  candid  re- 
marks 

To  the  Reader  :  — 

This  trifle,  begun  to  please  only  my- 
self and  my  own  private  fancy,  was 
laid  on  the  shelf.  But  some  friends, 
who  had  seen  it,  induced  me,  by  dint 
of  saying  they  liked  it,  to  put  it  in  print. 
That  is,  having  come  to  that  very  con- 
clusion, I  consulted  them  when  it  could 
make  no  confusion.  For  (though  in 
the  gentlest  of  ways)  they  had  hinted 
it  was  scarce  worth  the  while,  I  should 
doubtless  have  printed  it. 

I  began  it,  intending  a  Fable,  a  frail, 
slender  thing,  rhyme-ywinged,  with  a 
sting  in  its  tail.  But,  by  addings  and 
alterings  not  previously  planned,  —  di- 
gressions chance-hatched,  like  birds' 
eggs  in  the  sand, —and  dawdlings.  to 
suit  every  whimsy's  demand  (always 
freeing  the  bird  which  I  held  in  my 
hand,  for  the  two  perched,  perhaps  out 
of  reach,  in  the  tree\  —  it  grew  by  de- 
grees to  the  size  which  you  see.  I  was 
like  the  old  woman  that  carried  the 
calf,  and  my  neighbors,  like  hers,  no 
doubt,  wonder  and  laugh,  and  when, 
my  strained  arms  with  their  grown  bur- 
then full,  I  call  it  my  Fable,  they  call 
*t  a  bull. 

Having  scrawled  at  full  gallop  (as 
far  as  that  goes)  in  a  style  that  is  neither 
good  verse  nor  bad  prose,  and  being  a 
person  whom  nobody  knows,  some  peo- 
ple will  say  I  am  rather  more  free  with 
my  readers  than  it  is  becoming  to  be, 
that  I  seem  to  expect  them  to  wait  on 
my  leisure  in  following  wherever  I  wan- 
der at  pleasure,  that,  in  short,  I  take 
more  than  a  young  author's  lawful  ease, 
and  laugh  in  a  queer  way  so  like  Me- 
phistopheles,  that  the  public  will  doubt, 


as  they  grope  through  my  rhythm,  if  in 
truth  1  am  making  fun  at  them  or  with 
them. 

So  the  excellent  Public  is  hereby  as- 
sured that  the  sale  of  my  book  is  already 
secured.  For  there  is  not  a  poet 
throughout  the  whole  land  but  will 
purchase  a  copy  or  two  out  of  hand,  in 
the  fond  expectation  of  being  amused 
in  it,  by  seeing  his  betters  cut  up  and 
abused  in  it.  Now,  I  find,  by  a  pretty 
exact  calculation,  there  are  something 
like  ten  thousand  bards  in  the  nation, 
of  that  special  variety  whom  the  Review 
and  Magazine  critics  call  Ifty  and 
true,  and  about  thirty  thousand  (this 
tribe  is  increasing)  of  the  kinds  who 
are  termed  full  of  promise  and  pleas- 
ing. The  Public  will  see  by  a  glance 
at  this  schedule,  that  they  cannot  ex- 
pect me  to  be  over-sedulous  about 
courting  tketn,  since  it  seems  I  have 
got  enough  fuel  made  sure  of  for  boil- 
ing my  pot. 

As  for  such  of  our  poets  as  find  not 
their  names  mentioned  onca  in  my 
pages,  with  praises  or  blames,  let  them 
send  in  their  cards,  without  further 
delay,  to  my  friend  G.  P.  Putnam, 
Esquire,  in  Broadway,  where  a  list 
will  be  kept  with  the  strictest  regard 
to  the  day  and  the  hour  of  receiving  the 
card.  Then,  taking  them  up  as  I 
chance  to  have  time  (that  is,  if  their 
names  can  be  twisted  in  rhyme),  I  will 
honestly  give  each  his  proper  posi- 
tion, at  the  rate  of  one  author  to 
each  new  edition.  Thus  a  PRE- 
MIUM is  offered  sufficiently  high  (as 
the  magazines  say  when  they  tell  their 
best  lie)  to  induce  bards  to  club  their 
resources  and  buy  the  balance  of  every 
edition,  until  they  have  all  of  them 
fairly  been  run  through  the  mill. 

One  word  to  such  readers  (judicious 


126 


A    FABLE  FOR   CRITICS. 


and  wise)  as  read  books  with  something 
behind  the  mere  eyes,  of  whom  in  the 
country,  perhaps,  there  are  two,  in- 
cluding myself,  gentle  reader,  and  you. 
All  the  characters  sketched  in  this 
slight  jeu  d 'esprit,  though,  it  may  be, 
they  seem,  here  and  there,  rather  free, 
and  drawn  from  a  Mephistophelian 
stand-point,  are  meant  to  be  faithful, 
and  that  is  the  grand  point,  and  none 
but  an  owl  would  feel  sore  at  a  rub 
from  a  jester  who  tells  you,  without  any 
subterfuge,  that  he  sits  in  Diogenes' 
tub. 


A    PRELIMINARY    NOTE    TO 
THE   SECOND   EDITION, 

though  it  well  may  be  reckoned,  of  all 
composition,  the  species  at  once  most 
delightful  and  healthy,  is  a  thing  which 
an  author,  unless  he  be  wealthy  and 
willing  to  pay  for  that  kind  of  delight, 
is  not,  in  ail  instances,  called  on  to 
write.  Though  there  are,  it  is  said, 
who,  their  spirits  to  cheer,  slip  in  a  new 
title-page  three  times  a  year,  and  in 
this  way  snuff  up  an  imaginary  savor 
of  that  sweetest  of  dishes,  the  popular 
favor,  —  much  as  if  a  starved  painter 
should  fall  to  and  treat  the  Ugolino  in- 
side to  a  picture  of  meat. 

You  remember  (if  not,  pray  turn 
over  and  look)  that,  in  writing  the 
preface  which  ushered  my  book,  I 
treated  you,  excellent  Public,  not  mere- 
ly with  a  cool  disregard,  but  downright 
cavalierly.  Now  I  would  not  take  back 
the  least  thing  I  then  said,  though  I 
thereby  could  butter  both  sides  oif  my 
bread,  for  I  never  could  see  that  an 
author  owed  aught  to  the  people  he 
solaced,  diverted,  or  taught  ;  and,  as 
for  mere  fame,  I  have  long  ago  learned 
that  the  persons  by  whom  it  is  finally 
earned  are  those  with  whom  your  ver- 
dict weighed  not  a  pin,  unsustained  by" 
the  higher  court  sitting  within. 

But  I  wander  from  what  I  intended 
to  say,  —  that  you  have,  namely,  shown 
such  a  liberal  way  of  thinking,  and  so 
much  aesthetic  perception  of  anony- 
mous worth  in  the  handsome  reception 


you  gave  to  my  book,  spite  of  son,* 
private  piques  (having  bought  the  first 
thousand  in  barely  two  weeks),  that  I 
think,  past  a  doubt,  if  you  measured  the 
phiz  of  yours  most  devotedly,  Won- 
derful Quiz,  you  would  find  that  ita 
vertical  section  was  shorter,  by  an  inch 
and  two  tenths,  or  'twixt  that  and  a 
quarter. 

You  have  watched  a  child  playing  — 
in  those  wondrous  years  when  belief  is 
not  bound  to  the  eyes  and  the  ears,  and 
the  vision  divine  is  so  clear  and  un- 
marred,  that  each  baker  of  pies  in  the 
dirt  is  a  bard  ?  Give  a  knife  and  a 
shingle,  he  fits  out  a  fleet,  and,  on  that 
little  mud-puddle  over  the  street,  his 
invention,  in  purest  good  faith,  will 
make  sail  round  the  globe  with  a  puff 
of  his  breath  for  a  gale,  will  visit  in 
barely  ten  minutes,  all  climes,  and  find 
Northwestern  passages  hundreds  of 
times.  Or,  suppose  the  young  Poet 
fresh  stored  with  delights  from  that 
Bible  ofchildhood,  the  Arabian  N'ghts, 
he  will  turn  to  a  crony  and  cry,  "  Jack, 
let  's  play  that  I  am  a  Genius  !  "  Jacky 
straightway  makes  Aladdin's  lan.p  out 
of  a  stone,  and,  for  hours,  they  en- 
joy each  his  own  supernatural  pow- 
ers. This  is  all  very  pretty  and 
pleasant,  but  then  suppose  our  two  ur- 
chins have  grown  into  men,  and  both 
have  turned  authors,  —  one  says  to  his 
brother,  "  Let  's  play  we  're  the  Amer- 
ican somethings  or  other,  —  say  Homer 
or  Sophocles,  Goethe  or  Scott  (only 
let  them  be  big  enough,  no  matter 
what).  Come,  you  shall  be  Byron  or 
Pope,  which  you  choose  :  I  'II  be  Cole- 
ridge, and  both  shall  write  mutual 
reviews."  So  they  both  (as  mere 
strangers)  before  many  days,  send 
each  other  a  cord  of  anonymous  bays. 
Each,  piling  his  epithets,  smiles  in 
his  sleeve  to  see  what  his  friend  can 
be  made  to  believe  ;  each,  reading 
the  other's  unbiased  review,  thinks  — 
Here's  pretty  high  praise,  but  no  more 
than  is  true.  Well,  we  laugh  at  them 
both,  and  yet  make  no  great  fuss  when 
the  same  farce  is  acted  to  benefit  us. 
Even  I,  who,  if  asked,  scarce  a  month 
since,  what  Fudge  mean*,  should  have 


A   FABLE  FOR    CRITICS. 


127 


answered,  the  dear  Public's  critical 
judgment,  begin  to  think  sharp-witted 
Horace  spoke  sooth  when  he  said,  that 
the  Public  sometimes  hit  the  truth. 

In  reading  these  lines,  you  perhaps 
have  a  vision  of  a  person  in  pretty  good 
health  and  condition,  and  yet,  since  1 
put  forth  my  primary  edition,  I  have 
been  crushed,  scorched,  withered,  used 
up  and  put  down  (by  Smith  with  the 
cordial  assistance  of  Brown),  in  all,  if 
you  put  any  faith  in  my  rhymes,  to  the 
number  of  ninety-five  several  times, 
and,  while  I  am  writing,  —  I  tremble  to 
think  of  it,  for  I  may  at  this  moment  be 
just  on  the  brink  of  it,  —  Molybdostom, 
angry  at  being  omitted,  has  begun  a 
critique,  —  am  I  not  to  be  pitied  ?  * 

Now  I  shall  not  crush  tkem  since, 
indeed,  for  that  matter,  no  pressure  I 
know  of  could  render  them  flatter  ;  nor 
wither,  nor  scorch  them,  —  no  action 
of  fire  could  make  either  them  or  their 
articles  drier  ;  nor  waste  time  in  put- 
ting rhem  down  —  I  am  thinking  not 
their  own  self-inflation  will  keep  them 
from  sinking;  for  there  's  this  contradic- 
tion about  the  whole  bevy,  —  though 
without  the  least  weight,  they  are  awful- 
ly heavy.  No,  my  dear  honest  bore, 
surdo  fabulam  narras,  they  are  no 
more  to  me  than  a  rat  in  the  arras.  I 
can  walk  with  the  Doctor,  get  facts 
from  the  Don,  or  draw  out  the  Lambish 
quintessence  of  John,  and  feel  nothing 
more  than  a  half-comic  sorrow,  to  think 
that  they  all  will  be  lying  to-morrow 
tossed  carelessly  up  on  the  waste-paper 
shelves,  and  forgotten  by  all  but  their 
half-dozen  selves.  Once  snug  in  my 
attic,  my  fire  in  a  roar,  I  leave  the 
whole  pack  of  them  outside  the  door. 
With  Hakluyt  or  Purchas  I  wander 
away  to  the  black  northern  seas  or  bar- 
banc  Cathay  ;  get/o7t  with  O'Shanter, 
and  sober  me  then  with  that  builder  of 
brick-kilnish  dramas,  rare  Ben  ;  snuff 
Herbert,  as  holy  as  a  flower  on  a  grave  ; 
with  Fletcher  wax  tender,  o'er  Chap- 

*  The  wise  Scandinavians  probably  called 
their  bards  by  the  queer-looking  title  of 
Scald,  in  a  delicate  way,  as  it  were,  just  to 
hint  10  the  world  th  ;  hot  water  they  always 
gut  into. 


man  grow  brave  ;  with  Marlowe  or 
Kyd  take  a  fine  poet-rave  ;  in  Very, 
most  Hebrew  of  Saxons,  find  peace  ; 
with  Lycidas  welter  on  vext  Irish  seas; 
with  Webster  grow  wild,  and  climb 
earthward  again,  down  by  mystical 
Browne's  Jacob's-ladder-like  brain,  to 
that  spiritual  Pepys  (Cotton's  version) 
Montaigne  ;  find  a  new  depth  in  Words- 
worth, undreamed  of  before,  —  that 
divinely  inspired,  wise,  deep,  tender, 
grand  -  bore.  Or,  out  of  my  study, 
the  scholar  thrown  off,  Nature  holds  up 
her  shield  'gainst  the  sneer  and  the 
scoff;  the  landscape,  forever  consoling 
and  kind,  pours  her  wine  and  her  oil 
on  the  smarts  of  the  mind.  The  water- 
falls, scattering  its  vanishing  gems  ; 
the  tall  grove  of  hemlocks,  with  moss 
on  their  stems,  like  plashes  of  sun- 
light ;  the  pond  in  the  woods,  where 
no  foot  but  mine  and  the  bittern's  in- 
trudes ;  these  are  all  my  kind  neigh- 
bors, and  leave  me  no  wish  to  say 
aught  to  you  all,  my  poor  critics,  but  — 
pish  !  I  have  buried  the  hatchet  :  I  am 
twisting  an  allumette  out  of  one  of  you 
now,  and  relighting  my  calumet.  In 
your  private  capacities,  come  when  you 
please,  I  will  give  you  my  hand  and  a 
fresh  pipe  apiece. 

As  I  ran  through  the  leaves  of 
my  poor  little  book,  to  take  a  fond  au- 
thor's first  tremulous  look,  it  was  quite 
an  excitement  to  hunt  the  errata, 
sprawled  in  as  birds'  tracks  are  in  some 
kinds  of  strata  (only  these  made  things 
crookeder).  Fancy  an  heir,  that  a  father 
had  seen  born  well-featured  and  fair, 
turning  suddenly  wry-nosed,  club- 
footed,  squint-eyed,  hair-lipped,  wap- 
per-jawed,  carrot  haired,  from  a  pride 
become  an  aversion,  —  my  case  wasyel 
worse.  A  club-foot  (by  way  of  a  change) 
in  a  verse,  I  might  have  forgiven,  an 
o's  being  wry,  a  limp  in  an  e,  or  a  cock 
in  an  i,  —  but  to  have  the  sweet  babe 
of  my  brain  served  in  // .'  I  am  not 
queasy-stomached,  but  such  a  Thyes- 
tean  banquet  as  that  was  quite  out  of 
the  question. 

In  the  edition  now  issued,  no  pains 
are  neglected,  and  my  verses,  as  oratory 
say,  stand  corrected.     Yet  some  blun- 


128 


A    FABLE  FOR   CRITICS. 


ders  remain  of  the  public's  own  make, 
which  I  wish  to  correct  for  my  personal 
sake.  For  instance,  a  character  drawn 
in  pure  fun  and  condensing  the  traits 
of  a  dozen  in  one,  has  been,  as  I  hear, 
by  some  persons  applied  to  a  good 
lriend  of  mine,  whom  to  stab  in  the 
side,  as  we  walked  along  chatting  and 
joking  together,  would  not  be  my  way. 
1  can  hardly  tell  whether  a  question 
will  ever  arise  in  which  he  and  1  should 
by  any  strange  fortune  agree,  but  mean- 
while my  esteem  for  him  grows  as  I 
know  him,  and,  though  not  the  best 
judge  on  earth  of  a  poem,  he  knows 
what  it  is  he  is  saying  and  why,  and  is 
honest  and  fearless,  two  good  points 
which  1  have  not  found  *o  rife  I   can 


easily    smother    my  love    for    them, 
whether  on  my  side  or  t'other. 

For  my  other  anonymi,  you  may  be 
sure  that  I  know  what  is  meant  by  a 
caricature,  and  what  by  a  portrait. 
There  are  those  who  think  it  is  capital 
fun  to  be  spattering  their  ink  on  quiet, 
unquarrelsome  folk,  but  the  minute  the 
game  changes  sides  and  the  others  be- 
gin it,  they  see  something  savage  and 
horrible  in  it.  As  for  me  I  respect 
neither  women  nor  men  for  their  gender, 
nor  own  any  sex  in  a  pen.  1  choose 
just  to  hint  to  some  causeless  unfriends 
that,  as  far  as  I  know,  there  are  always 
two  ends  (and  one  of  them  heaviest, 
too)  to  a  staff,  and  two  parties  also  to 
•very  good  laugh. 


A    FABLE    FOR    CRITICS, 


Phckbus,  sitting  one  day  in  a  laurel- 
tree's  shade. 

Was  reminded  of  Daphne,  of  whom  it 
was  made, 

For  the  god  being  one  day  too  warm  in 
his  wooing, 

She  took  to  the  tree  to  escape  his  pur- 
suing ; 

Be  the  cause  what  it  might,  from  his 
offers  she  shrunk, 

And,  Ginevra-like,  shut  herself  up  in  a 
trunk ; 

And,  though  't  was  a  step  into  which  he 
had  driven  her, 

He  somehow  or  other  had  never  for- 
given her ; 

Her  memory  he  nursed  as  a  kind  of  a 
tonic, 

Something  bitter  to  chew  when  he  'd 
play  the  Byronic, 

And  I  can't  count  the  obstinate  nymphs 
that  he  brought  over, 

By  a  strange  kind  of  smile  he  put  on 
when  he  thought  of  her. 

"  My  case  is  like  Dido's,"  he  some- 
times remarked  ; 

"  When  I  last  saw  my  love,  she  was 
fairly  embarked 

In  a  laurel,  as  she  thought — 'but  (ah 
how  Fate  mocks  !) 

She  has  found  it  by  this  time  a  very  bad 
box  ; 

Let  hunters  from  me  take  this  saw  when 
they  need  it,  — 

You  're  not  always  sure  of  your  game 
when  you've  treed  it. 

Just  conceive  such   a  change    taking 
place  in  one's  mistress  ! 

What   romance   would  be  left?  —  who 
can  flatter  or  kiss  trees? 

And,  for  mercy's  sake,  how  could  one 
keep  up  a  dialogue 
9 


With  a  dull  wooden  thing  that  will  live 
and  will  die  a  log,  — 

Not  to  say  that  the  thought  would  for- 
ever intrude 

That  you  've  less  chance  to  win  her  the 
more  she  is  wood  ? 

Ah  !  it  went  to  my  heart,  and  the  mem- 
ory still  grieves, 

To  see  those  loved  graces  all  taking 
their  leaves  ; 

Those  charms  beyond  speech,  so  en- 
chanting but  now, 

As  they  left  me  forever,  each  making  its 
bough  ! 

If  her  tongue  had  a  tang  sometimes 
more  than  was  right, 

Her  new  bark  is  worse  than  ten  times 
her  old  bite." 

Now,  Daphne,  — before  she  was  hap- 
pily treeified,  — 

Over  all  other  blossoms  the  lily  had 
deified, 

And  when  she  expected  the  god  on  a 
visit 

('T  was  before  he  had  made  his  inten- 
tions explicit), 

Some  buds  she  arranged  with  a  vast 
deal  of  care, 

To  look  as  if  artlessly  twined  in  her  hair. 

Where  they  seemed,  as  he  said,  when 
he  paid  his  addresses, 

Like  the  day  breaking  through  the  long 
night  of  her  tresses  ; 

So  whenever  he  wished  to  be  quite  irre- 
sistible, 

Like  a  man  with  eight  trumps  in  his 
hand  at  a  whist-table 

(I  feared  me  at  first  that  the  rhyme  was 
untwistable, 

Though  I  might  have  lugged  in  an  allu- 
sion to  CristabeU, — 


i3o 


A    FABLE   FOR   CRITICS. 


He  would  take  up  a  lily,  and  gloomily 

look  in  it, 
As  I  shall  at  the ,  when  they  cut 

up  my  book  in  it. 

Well,  here,  after  all  the  bad  rhyme 
1  've  been  spinning, 

I  've  got  back  at  last  to  my  story's  be- 
ginning : 

Sitting  there,  as  I  say,  in  the  shade  of 
his  mistress, 

As  dull  as  a  volume  of  old  Chester  mys- 
teries, 

Or  as  those  puzzling  specimens,  which, 
in  old  histories, 

We  read  of  his  verses  —  the  Oracles, 
namely,  — 

(I  wonder  the  Greeks  should  have 
swallowed  them  tamely, 

For  one  might  bet  safely  whatever  he 
has  to  risk, 

They  were  laid  at  his  door  by  some  an- 
cient Miss  Asterisk, 

And  so  dull  that  the  men  who  retailed 
them  out-doors 

Got  the  ill  name  of  augurs,  because 
they  were  bores,  — ) 

First,  he  mused  what  the  animal  sub- 
stance or  herb  is 

Would  induce  a  mustache,  for  you 
know  he  's  imberbis ; 

Then  he  shuddered  to  think  how  his 
youthful  position 

Was  assailed  by  the  age  of  his  son  the 
physician  ; 

At  some  poems  he  glanced,  had  been 
sent  to  him  lately, 

And  the  metre  and  sentiment  puzzled 
him  greatly  ; 

"  Mehercle  !  I  'd  make  such  proceed- 
ing felonious,  — 

Have  they  all  of  them  slept  in  the  cave 
of  Trophonius? 

Look  well  to  your  seat,  't  is  like  taking 
an  airing 

On  a  corduroy  road,  and  that  out  of  re- 
pairing ; 

It  leads  one,  't  is  true,  through  the 
primitive  forest. 

Grand  natural  features,  — h  at,  then,  one 
has  no  rest  ; 

You  just  catch  a  glimpse  of  some  rav- 
ishing distance, 

When  a  jolt  puts  the  whole  of  it  out  of 
existence,  — 


Why  not  use  their  ears,  if  they  happen 

to  have  any  ?  " 
—  Here   the    laurel-leaves    murmured 

the  name  of  poor  Daphne. 

"  O,   weep  with  me,  Daphne,"   he 

sighed,  "  for  you  know  it  's 
A   terrible   thing  to  be  pestered   with 

poets  ! 
But,  alas,  she  is  dumb,  and  the  proverb 

holds  good, 
She  never  will  cry  till  she  's  out  of  the 

wood  ! 
What  would  n't  I  give  if  I  never  had 

known  of  her? 
'Twere  a  kind  of  relief  had  I  some- 
thing to  groan  over : 
If  I  had  but  some  letters  of  hers,  now, 

to  toss  over, 
I  might  turn  for  the  nonce  a  Byronic 

philosopher, 
And  bewitch  all  the  flats  by  bemoaning 

the  loss  of  her. 
One  needs  something  tangible,  though, 

to  begin  on,  — 
A  loom,  as  it  were,  for  the  fancy  to  spin 

on  ; 
What  boots  all  your  grist?  it  can  never 

be  ground 
Till  a  breeze  makes  the  arms  of  the 

windmill  go  round 
(Or,  if 't  is  a  water-mill,  alter  the  meta- 
phor, 
And  say  it  won't  stir,  save  the  wheel  be 

well  wet  afore, 
Or  lug  in  some  stuff  about  water  "  so 

dreamily,"  — 
It  is  not  a  metaphor,   though,  't  is  a 

simile)  ; 
A   lily,    perhaps,   would   set   my    mill 

a-going, 
For  just  at  this  season,   I  think,   they 

are  blowing. 
Here,  somebody,  fetch  one,  not  very 

far  hence 
They  're  in  bloom  by  the  score,  't  is 

but  climbing  a  fence  ; 
There  's  a  poet  hard  by,  whodoesroth- 

ing  but  fill  his 
Whole  garden,  from  one  end  to  t'other, 

with  lilies ; 
A  very  good  plan,  were  it  not  for  sati- 
ety, 
One  longs  for  a  weed  here  and  there, 

for  variety  ; 


A    FABLE   FOR   CR///CS 


>3i 


Though  a  weerl  is  no  more  than  3  flower 

in  disguise, 
Which  is  seen  through  at  once,  if  love 

give  a  man  eyes." 

Now   there   happened  to  be  among 

Plutbus's  followers, 
A  gentleman,   one  of  the  omnivorous 

swallowers, 
Who  bolt  every  book  that  comes  out  of 

the  press, 
Without  the  least  question  of  larger  or 

less, 
Whose  stomachs  are  strong  at  the  ex- 
pense of  their  head,  — 
For  reading  new  books  is  like  eating 

new  bread, 
One  can  bear  it  at  first,  but  by  gradual 

steps  he 
Is  brought  to  death's  door  of  a  mental 

dyspepsy. 
On  a  previous  stage  of  existence,  our 

Hero 
Had  ridden  outside,  with  the  glass  be- 
low zero ; 
He  had  been,  'tis  a  fact  you  may  safely 

rely  on, 
Of  a  very  old  stock  a  most  eminent 

scion,  — 
A   stock  all  fresh  quacks  their  fierce 

boluses  ply  on, 
Who  stretch  the  new  boots   Earth  's 

unwilling  to  try  on, 
Whom  humbugs  of  all  shape*  and  sorts 

keep  their  eye  on, 
Whose  hair  's  in  the  mortar   of  every 

new  Zion, 
Who,  when  whistles  are  dear,  go  direct- 
ly and  buy  one, 
Who  think  slavery  a  crime  tha*   we 

must  not  say  fie  on, 
Who  hunt,  if  they  e'er  hunt  at  all,  with 

the  lion 
(Though  they  hunt  lions  also,  wheneve' 

they  spy  one), 
Who  contrive  to  make  every  good  for- 
tune a  wry  one, 
And  at  last  choose  the  hard  bed   of 

honor  to  die  on, 
Whose    pedigree,   traced     to     earth's 

earliest  years, 
Is  longer  than  anything  else  but  their 

ears ; — 
In  short,  he  was  sent  into  life  with  the 

wrong  key, 


He  unlocked  the  door,  and  stept  forth 
a  poor  donkey. 

Though  kicked  and  abused  by  his  bi- 
pedal betters 

Yet  he  filled  no  mean  place  in  the  king- 
dom of  letters  ; 

Far  happier  than  many  a  literary 
hack, 

He  bore  only  paper-mill  rags  on  his 
back 

(For  it  makes  a  vast  difference  which 
side  the  mill 

One  expends  on  the  paper  his  labor 
and  skill) ; 

So,  when  his  soul  waited  a  new  trans- 
migration, 

And  Destiny  balanced  'twixt  this  and 
that  station, 

Not  having  much  time  to  expend  upon 
bothers, 

Remembering  he  'd  had  some  connec- 
tion with  authors, 

And  considering  his  four  legs  had  grown 
paralytic,  — 

She  set  him  on  two,  and  he  came  forth 
a  critic. 

Through  his  babyhood  no   kind   of 

pleasure  he  took 
In  any  amusement  but  tearing  a  book  ; 
For  him  there  was  no  intermediate  stage 
From   babyhood   up   to   straight-laced 

middle  age  ; 
There  were  years  when  he  did  n't  wear 

coat-tails  behind, 
But  a  boy  he  could  never  be  rightly  de- 
fined ; 
Like  the  Irish  Good   Folk,   though  in 

length  scarce  a  span, 
From   the  womb   he  came  gravely,  a 

little  old  man  ; 
While  other  boys'  trousers  demanded 

the  toil 
Of  the  motherly  fingers  on  all  kinds  of 

soil, 
Red,   yellow,    brown,     black,    clayey, 

gravelly,  loamy, 
H<e   sat  in   the  corner  and  read  Viri 

Romae. 
H»  never  was  known  to  unbend  or  to 

revel  once 
In  base,  marbles,   hockev,  or  kick  up 

the  devil  once  ; 
He  was  just  one  of  fho.^e  ivho  9\d*s 

the  benevolence 


'32 


A    FABLE  FOR   CRITICS. 


Of  your  old  prigs  who  sound  the  soul's 
depths  with  a  ledger, 

And  are  on  the  lookout  for  some  young 
men  to  '  edger- 

-cate,"  as  they  call  it,  who  won't  be  too 
costly, 

And  who  '11  afterward  take  to  the 
ministry  mostly  ; 

Who  always  wear  spectacles,  always 
look  bilious, 

Always  keep  on  good  terms  with  each 
mater-familias 

Throughout  the  whole  parish,  and  man- 
age to  rear 

Ten  boys  like  themselves,  on  four  hun- 
dred a  year : 

Who,  fulfilling  in  turn  the  same  fearful 
conditions, 

Either  preach  through  their  noses,  or 
go  upon  missions. 

In  this  way  our  hero  got  safely  to 
college, 

Where  he  bolted  alike  both  his  com- 
mons and  knowledge ; 

A  reading-machine,  always  wound  up 
and  going, 

He  mastered  whatever  was  not  worth 
the  knowing, 

Appeared  in  a  gown,  and  a  vest  of 
black  satin, 

To  spout  such  a  Gothic  oration  in 
Latin 

That  Tully  could  never  have  made  out 
a  word  in  it 

(Though  himself  was  the  model  the 
author  preferred  in  it), 

And  grasping  the  parchment  which  gave 
him  in  fee 

All  the  mystic  and-so-forths  contained 
in  A.  B., 

He  was  launched  (life  is  always  com- 
pared to  a  sea), 

With  just  enough  learning,  and  skill 
for  the  using  it, 

To  prove  he  'd  a  brain,  by  forever  con- 
fusing it. 

So  worthy  St.  Benedict,  piously  burn- 
ing 

With  the  holiest  zeal  against  secular 
learning, 

Nesciensq:ie  scienter,  as  writers  express 
it, 

Indoctitsque  sapienter a  Rotna  recessit. 


'T  would  be  endless  to  tell  you  Ch# 

things  that  he  knew, 
All  separate  facts,  undeniably  true, 
But  with  him   or   each   other   they  'd 

nothing  to  do  ; 
No  power  of  combining,  arranging,  dis- 
cerning, 
Digested   the   masses  he  learned  into 

learning  ; 
There  was  one   thing   in   life  he  had 

practical  knowledge  for 
(And   this,    you   will   think,    he    need 

scarce  go  to  college  for),  — 
Not  a  deed  would  he  do,  nor  a  word 

would  he  utter, 
Till  he  'd  weighed  its  relations  to  plain 

bread  and  butter. 
When  he  left  Alma  Mater,  he  practised 

his  wits 
In   compiling   the  journals'   historical 

bits,  — 
Of  shopsbroken  open,  men  falling  in  fits, 
Great  fortunes  in  England  bequeathed 

to  poor  printers, 
And  cold  spells,  the  coldest  for  many 

past  winters,  — 
Then,  rising  by  industry,  knack,  and 

address, 
Got  notices  up  for  an  unbiased  press, 
With  a  mind  so  well  poised,  it  seemed 

equally  made  for 
Applause  or  abuse,  just  which  chanced 

to  be  paid  for  : 
From  this  point  his  progress  was  rapid 

and  sure, 
To  the  post  of  a  regular  heavy  reviewer. 

And  here  I  must  say  he  wrote  ex- 
cellent articles 

On  the  Hebraic  points,  or  the  force 
of  Greek  particles, 

They  filled  up  the  space  nothing  else 
was  prepared  for ; 

And  nobody  read  that  which  nobody 
cared  for  ; 

If  any  old  book  reached  a  fiftieth  edition, 

He  could  fill  forty  pages  with  safe  erudi- 
tion : 

He  could  gauge  the  old  books  by  the 
old  set  of  rules, 

And  his  very  old  nothings  pleased  very 
old  fools  ; 

But  give  him  a  new  book,  fresh  out  of 
the  heart, 


A   FABLE  FOR    CRITICS. 


>33 


And  you  put  him  at  sea  without  com- 
pass or  chart,  — 

His  blunders  aspired  to  the  rank  of  an 
art ; 

For  his  lore  was  engraft,  something 
foreign  that  grew  in  him, 

Exhausting  the  sap  of  the  native  and 
true  in  him, 

So  that  when  a  man  came  with  a  soul 
that  was  new  in  him, 

Carving  new  forms  of  truth  out  of  Na- 
ture's old  granite, 

New  and  old  at  their  birth,  like  Le 
Verrier  s  planet, 

Which,  to  get  a  true  judgment,  them- 
selves must  create 

In  the  soul  of  their  critic  the  measure 
and  weight, 

Being  rather  themselves  a  fresh  stand- 
ard of  grace, 

To  compute  their  own  judge,  and  assign 
him  his  place, 

Our  reviewer  would  crawl  all  about  it 
and  round  it, 

And,  reporting  each  circumstance  just 
as  he  found  it, 

Without  the  least  malice,  —  his  record 
would  be 

Profoundly  aesthetic  as  that  of  a  flea, 

Which,  supping  on  Wordsworth,  should 
print,  for  our  sakes, 

Recollections  of  nights  with  the  Bard 
of  the  Lakes, 

Or,  lodged  by  an  Arab  guide,  ventured 
to  render  a 

General  view  of  the  ruins  at  Denderah. 

As  I  said,  he  was  never  precisely 
unkind, 

The  defect  in  his  brain  was  just  absence 
of  mind  ; 

If  he  boasted,  'twas  simply  that  he  was 
self-made, 

A  position  which  I,  for  one,  never  gain- 
said, 

My  respect  for  my  Maker  supposing  a 
skill 

In  his  works  which  our  Hero  would  an- 
swer but  ill ; 

And  I  trust  that  the  mould  which  he 
used  may  be  cracked,  or  he, 

Made  bold  by  success,  may  enlarge  his 
phylactery, 

And  set  up  a  kind  of  a  man-manufac- 
tory, - 


An  event  which  I  shudder  to  think 
about,  seeing 

That  Man  is  a  moral,  accountable  be- 
ing. 

He  meant  well  enough,  but  was  still 
in  the  way, 

As  a  dunce  always  is,  let  him  be  where 
he  may  : 

Indeed,  they  appear  to  come  into  ex- 
istence 

To  impede  other  folks  with  their  awk- 
ward assistance  , 

If  you  set  up  a  dunce  on  the  very 
North  pole, 

All  alone  with  himself,  I  believe,  on  my 
soul, 

He'd  manage  togetbetwixl  somebody's 
shins, 

And  pitch  him  down  bodily,  all  in  his 
sins, 

To  the  grave  polar  bears  sitting  round 
on  the  ice, 

All  shortening  their  grace,  to  be  in  for 
a  slice  ; 

Or,  if  he  found  nobody  else  there  to 
pother, 

Why,  one  of  his  legs  would  just  trip  up 
the  other, 

For  there  's  nothing  we  read  of  in  tor- 
ture's inventions, 

Like  a  well-meaning  dunce,  with  the 
best  of  intentions. 

A  terrible  fellow  to  meet  in  society, 

Not  the  toast  that  he  buttered  was  ever 
so  dry  at  tea  ; 

There  he  'd  sit  at  the  table  and  stir  in 
his  sugar, 

Crouching  close  for  a  spring,  all  the 
while,  like  a  cougar  ; 

Be  sure  of  your  facts,  of  your  measures 
and  weights, 

Of  your  time,  —  he  's  as  fond  as  an  Arab 
of  dates  ;  — 

You  '11  be  telling,  perhaps,  in  your  com- 
ical way, 

Of  something  you  've  seen  in  the  course 
of  the  day  ; 

And,  just  as  you  're  tapering  out  the 
conclusion, 

You  venture  an  ill-fated  classic  allu- 
sion, — 

The  girls  have  all  got  their  laughs  ready, 
when,  whack  1 


134 


A    FABLE  FOR    CRITICS. 


The  cougar  comes  down  on  your  thun- 
derstruck back  ! 
You   had    left    out   a   comma,  —  your 

Greek  's  put  in  joint, 
And  pointed   at   cost   of  your  story's 

whole  point. 
In  the  course  of  the  evening,  you  ven- 
ture on  certain 
Soft  speeches  to  Anne,  in  the  shade  of 

the  curtain  : 
You  tell  her  your  heart  can  be  likened 

to  one  flower, 
"  And     that,   O    most    charming    of 

women,  's  the  sunflower, 
Which    turns  "  —  here    a  clear  nasal 

voice,  to  your  terror, 
From  outside  the  curtain,  says,  "That 's 

all  an  error." 
As  for  him,  he  's  —  no  matter,  he  never 

grew  tender, 
Sitting  after  a  ball,  with  his  feet  on  the 

fender, 
Shaping  somebody's  sweet  features  out 

of  cigar  smoke, 
(Though  he  'd  willingly  grant  you  that 

such  doings  are  smoke)  ; 
All   women   he  damns  with    mutabile 

semper, 
And   if    ever  he  felt   something    like 

love's  distemper, 
'1  was  towards  a  young  lady  who  spoke 

ancient  Mexican, 
And   assisted   her  father  in  making  a 

lexicon  ; 
Though    I    recollect   hearing   him   get 

quite  ferocious 
About  Mary  Clausum,  the  mistress  of 

Grotius, 
Or  something   of  that   sort, —but,  no 

more  to  bore  ye 
With   character-painting,  I  '11  turn  to 
my  story. 

Now,  Apollo,  who  finds  it  convenient 

sometimes 
To  get   his  court   clear  of  the   makers 

of  rhymes,  . 

Theg-enrts,  I  think  it  is  called,  imla- 

bi/e,  .        ., 

Every  one   of   whom   thinks     himselt 

treated  most  shabbily,     _ 
And  nurses  a  —  what  is  it  ?  —  immedi- 

cabile,  , 

Which  keeps  him  at  boiling-point,  hot 

for  a  quarrel, 


As   bitter  as   wormwood,    and    sourer 

than  sorrel, 
I  f  any  poor  devil  but  look  at  a  laurel  ;  — 
Apollo,  I  say,  being  sick  of  their  riot- 
ing 
(Though  he   sometimes   acknowledged 

their  verse  had  a  quieting 
Effect  after  dinner,  and  seemed  to  sug- 
gest a 
Retreat   to   the   shrine   of  a     tranquil 

siesta), 
Kept  our  Hero  at  hand,  who,  by  means 

of  a  bray, 
Whid:  he  gave  to   the  life,  drove   the 

rabble  away  ; 
And  if  that  would  n't  do,  he  was  sure 

to  succeed, 
If  he  took  his  review  out  and  offered 

to  read  ; 
Or,  failing  in  plans  of  this  milder  de- 
scription, 
He  would  ask  for  their  aid  to  get  up  a 

subscription, 
Considering  that  authorship  was  n't  a 

rich  craft, 
To    print    the    "  American    drama   of 

Witchcraft." 
"Stay,  I'll  read  you  a  scene,"  — but 

he  hardly  began, 
Ere  Apollo  shrieked  "  Help  ! "  and  the 

authors  all  ran  : 
And  once,  when  these  purgatives  acted 

with  less  spirit, 
And  the  desperate  case  asked  a  remedy 

desperate, 
He  drew  from  his  pocket  a  foolscap 

epistle, 
As  calmly  as  if  't  were  a  nine-barrelled 

pistol, 
And  threatened  them  all  with  the  judg- 
ment to  come, 
Of  "  A  wandering  Star's  first  impres- 
sions of  Rome." 
"  Stop  !   stop  !  "   with  their  hands  o  er 
their  ears,  screamed  the  Muses, 
"  He  may  go  off  and  murder  himself,  if 

he  chooses, 
'T  was  a  means  self-defence  only  sanc- 
tioned his  trying, 
'T  is  mere  massacre  now  that  the  ene- 
my 's  flying : 
If  he  's  forced  to  't  again,  and  we  hap- 
pen to  be  there,  . 
Give   us    each    a    large   handkerchiei 
6oaked  in  strong  ether." 


A    FABLE  FOR   CRITICS. 


ns 


I  called  this  a  "Fable  for  Critics"  ; 

you  think  it 's 
More  like  a  display  of  my  rhythmical 

trinkets ; 
My  plot,  like  an  icicle,  's  slender  and 

slippery, 
Every  moment  more  slender,  and  likely 

to  slip  awry, 
And  the  reader  unwilling  in  loco  desi- 

pere, 
Is  free  to  jump  over  as  much  of  my  frip- 
pery 
As  he  fancies,  and,  if  he  's  a  provident 

skipper,  he 
May  have  an   Odyssean  sway  of  the 

gales, 
And  get  safe  to  port,  ere  his  patience 

quite  fails ; 
Moreover,  although  't  is  a  slender  re- 
turn 
For  your  toil  and  expense,  yet  my  pa- 
per will  burn, 
And,  if  you   have   manfully  struggled 

thus  far  with  me, 
You  may  e'en  twist  me  up,    and  just 

light  your  cigar  with  me  : 
If  too  angry  for  that,  you  can  tear  me 

in  pieces, 
And  my  membra  disjecta   consign  to 

the  breezes, 
A  fate  like  great  Ratzau's,  whom  one 

of  those  bores, 
Who   beflead    with    bad    verses    poor 

Louis  Quatorze, 
Describes  (the  first  verse  somehow  ends 

with  victoire). 
As  dispersant  partout  et  ses  membres 

et  sa  gloire  ; 
Or,  if  I  were  over-desirous  of  earning 
A  repute  among  noodles  for  classical 

learning, 
I  could  pick  you  a  score  of  allusions,  I 

wis, 
As  new  as  the  jests  of  Didaskalos  tis  ; 
Better  still,   I  could  make  out  a  good 

solid  list 
From  recondite  authors  who  do  not  ex- 
ist,— 
But  that  would  be  naughty  :  at  least,  I 

could  twist 
Something  out  of  Absyrtus,  or  turn  your 

inquiries 
After  Milton's  prose  metaphor,  drawn 

from  Osiris ;  — 


But,  as  Cicero  says  he  won't  say  this  or 
that 

(A  fetch,  I  must  say,  most  transparent 
and  flat), 

After  saying  whate'er  he  could  possibly 
think  of,  — 

I  simply  will  state  that  I  pause  on  the 
brink  of 

A  mire,  ankle-deep,  of  deliberate  con- 
fusion, 

Made  up  of  old  jumbles  of  classic  allu- 
sion, 

So,  when  you  were  thinking  yourselves 
to  be  pitied, 

Just  conceive  how  much  harder  your 
teeth  you  'd  have  gritted, 

An  't  were  not  for  the  dulness  I  've 
kindly  omitted. 

I  'd  apologize  here  for  my  many  di- 
gressions, 
Were  it  not  that  I  'm  certain  to  trip  into 

fresh  ones 
('T  is  so  hard  to  escape  if  you  get  in 

their  mesh  once) ; 
Just  reflect,  if  you  please,  how  't  is  said 

by  Horatius, 
That  Majonides  nods  now   and  then, 

and,  my  gracious  ! 
It  certainly  does  look  a  little  bit  omi- 
nous 
When   he   gets    under   way    with  ton 

d '  apameibomenos- 
(Here  a  something   occurs  whieh  I  '11 

just  clap  a  rhyme  to, 
And  say  it  myself,  ere  a  Zoilus  have 

time  to,  — 
Any  author  a  nap  like  Van  Winkle's 

may  take, 
If   he   only  contrive   to   keep  readers 

awake, 
But  he  '11  very  soon  find  himself  laid  on 

the  shelf, 
If  they  fall  a-nodding  when  he  nods 

himself.) 

Once  for  all,  to  return,  and  to  stay, 

will  I,  nill  I  — 
When  Phoebus  expressed  his  desire  for 

a  lily. 
Our  hero,  whose  homoeopathic  sagacity 
With  an  ocean  of  zeal  mixed  his  drop 

of  capacity, 
Set  off  for  the  garden  as  fast  as  the  wind 


'36 


A   FABLE  FOR   CRITICS. 


(Or,  to  take  a  comparison  more  to  my 

mind, 
As  a  sound  politician  leaves  conscience 

behind), 
And  leaped  the  low  fence,  as  a  party 

hack  jumps 
O'er   his  principles,    when   something 

else  turns  up  trumps. 

He  was  gone  a  long  time,  and  Apollo, 
meanwhile, 

Went  over  some  sonnets  of  his  with  a 
file, 

For,  of  all  compositions,  he  thought 
that  the  sonnet 

Best  repaid  all  the  toil  you  expended 
upon  it ; 

It  should  reach  with  one  impulse  the 
end  of  its  course, 

And  for  one  final  blow  collect  all  of  its 
force ; 

Not  a  verse  should  be  salient,  but  each 
one  should  tend 

With  a  wave-like  up-gathering  to  burst 
at  the  end  :  — 

So,  condensing  the  strength  here,  there 
smoothing  a  wry  kink, 

He  was  killing  the  time,  when  up  walked 
Mr. ; 

At  a  few  steps  behind  him,  a  small  man 
in  glasses 

Went  dodging  about,  muttering,  "Mur- 
derers !  asse    ! " 

From  out  ofhispocketapaperhe'dtake, 

With  the  proud  look  of  martyrdom  tied 
to  its  stake, 

And,  reading  a  squib  at  himself,  he  'd 
say,  "  Here  I  see 

'Gainst  American  letters  a  bloody  con- 
spiracy, 

They  are  all  by  my  personal  enemies 
written  ; 

I  must  post  an  anonymous  letter  to 
Britain, 

And  show  that  this  gall  is  the  merest 
suggestion 

Of  spite  at  my  zeal  on  the  Copyright 
question, 

For,  on  this  side  the  water,  't  is  pru- 
dent to  pull 

O'er  the  eyes  of  the  public  their  na- 
tional wool, 

By  accusing  of  slavish  respect  to  John 
Bu.l 


All  American  authors  who  have  more 
or  less 

Of  that  anti-American  humbug  —  suc- 
cess, 

While  in  private  we  're  always  em- 
bracing the  knees 

Of  some  twopenny  editor  over  the 
seas, 

And  licking  his  critical  shoes,  for  you 
know  't  is 

The  whole  aim  of  our  lives  to  get  one 
English  notice  ; 

My  American  puffs  I  would  willingly 
burn  all 

(They  're  all  from  one  source,  monthly, 
weekly,  diurnal) 

To  get  but  a  kick  from  a  transmarine 
journal  !" 

So,  culling  the  gibes  of  each  critical 
scorner 

As  if  they  were  plums,  and  himself 
were  Jack  Horner, 

He  came  cautiously  on,  peeping  round 
every  corner, 

And  into  each  hole  where  a  weasel 
might  pass  in, 

Expecting  the  knife  of  some  critic  as- 
sassin, 

Who  stabs  to  the  heart  with  a  carica- 
ture, 

Not  so  bad  as  those  daubs  of  the  Sun, 
to  be  sure, 

Yet  done  with  a  dagger-o'-type,  whose 
vile  portraits 

Disperse  all  one's  good  and  condense 
all  one's  poor  traits. 

Apollo  looked  up,  hearing  footsteps 

approaching, 
And  slipped  out  of  sight  the  new  rhymes 

he  was  broaching,  — 
"  Good  day,  Mr. ,  I  'm  happy  to 

meet, 
With  a  scholar  so  ripe,  and  a  critic   so 

neat, 
Who  through  Grub  Street  the  soul  of 

a  gentleman  carries ; 
What  news  from  that  suburb  of  London 

and  Paris 
Which  latterly  makes  such  shrill  claims 

to  monopolize 
The  credit  of  being  the  New  WorWs 

metropolis?" 


A   FABLE  FOR   CRITICS. 


'37 


"Why,  nothing  of  consequence,  save 

this  attack 
On  my  friend  there,  behind,   by  some 

pitiful  hack, 
Who   thinks   every   national  author  a 

poor  one. 
That  is  n't   a  copy  of  something  that 's 

foreign, 
And  assaults  the  American  Dick —  " 

"  Nay,  't  is  clear 
That  your  Damon  there  's  fond  of  a  flea 

in  his  ear, 
And,    if  no  one  else    furnished   them 

gratis,  on  tick 
He  would  buy  some  himself,   just  to 

hear  the  old  click  ; 
Why,  I  honestly  think,  if  some  fool  in 

Japan 
Should  turn  up  his  nose  at  the  '  Poems 

on  Man,' 
Vour  friend  there  by  some  inward  in- 
stinct would  know  it, 
Would  get  it  translated,  reprinted,  and 

show  it ; 
As  a  man  might  take  off  a  high  stock 

to  exhibit 
The  autograph  round  his  own  neck  of 

the  gibbet ; 
Nor  would  let  it  rest  so,  but  fire  column 

after  column, 
Signed  Cato,  or  Brutus,   or  something 

as  solemn, 
Byway  of  displaying  his  critical  crosses, 
And  tweaking   that  poor  transatlantic 

proboscis, 
His    broadsides    resulting     (this     last 

there  's  no  doubt  of) 
In  successively  sinking  the  craft  they  're 

fired  out  of. 
Nownobodyknows  when  an  authorishit, 
If  he  don't  have  a  public  hysterical  fit ; 
Let  him  only   keep   close   in  his  snug 

garret's  dim  ether, 
And  nobody  'd  think  of  his  critics  —  or 

him  either ; 
If  an  author   have  any  least   fibre   of 

worth  in  him, 
Abuse  would  but   tickle  the   organ  of 

mirth  in  him  ; 
All  the   critics  on  earth  cannot  crush 

with  their  ban 
One  word  that 's  in  tune  with  the  nature 

of  man.  " 


"Well,  perhaps  so;  meanwhile  I 
have  brought  you  a  book, 

Into  which  if  you  '11  just  have  the  good- 
ness to  look, 

You  may  feel  so  delighted  (when  once 
you  are  through  it) 

As  to  deem  it  not  unworth  your  while 
to  review  it, 

And  I  think  I  can  promise  your 
thoughts,  if  you  do, 

A  place  in  the  next  Democratic  Re- 
view." 

"The  most   thankless   of  gods  you 

must  surely  have  thought  me, 
For  this  is  the  forty-fourth  copy  you've 

brought  me, 
I  have  given  them  away,  or  at  least  I 

have  tried, 
But  I  've  forty-two  left,  standing  all  side 

by  side 
(The  man  who  accepted  that  one  copy 

died),  — 
From  one  end  of  a  shelf  to  the  other 

they  reach, 
'  With    the  author's  respects  '   neatly 

written  in  each. 
The    publisher,    sure,   will  proclaim  a 

Te  Deum, 
When  he  hears  of  that  order  the  British 

Museum 
Has  sent   for  one  set  of  what   books 

were  first  printed 
In    America,    little   or  big,  —  for   'tis 

hinted 
That  this  is  the  first  truly  tangible  hope 

he 
Has  ever  had  raised  for  the  saleofacopy. 
I  've  thought  very  often  't  would  be   a 

good  thing 
In  all  public  collections  of  books,  if  a 

wing 
Were  set  off  by  itself,  like  the  seas  from 

the  dry  lands, 
Marked  Literature  suited  to  desolate 

islands, 
And  filled  with  such  books  as  could 

never  be  read 
Save  by  readers  of  proofs,  forced  to  do 

it  for  bread,  — 
Such   books   as   one's   wrecked  on  in 

small  country- taverns, 
Such  as  hermits  might  mortify  over  in 

caverns, 


i38 


A    FABLE  FOR   CRITICS. 


Such   as   Satan,   if  printing  had   then 

been  invented, 
As  the  climax   of  woe,  would   to  Job 

have  presented, 
Such  as  Crusoe  might  dip  in,  although 

there  are  few  so 
Outrageously  cornered  by  fate  as  poor 

Crusoe  ; 
And  since  the  philanthropists  just  now 

are  banging 
And  gibbeting   all  who  're  in  favor  of 

hanging 
(Though  Cheever  has  proved  that  the 

Bible  and  Altar 
Were  let  down  from  Heaven  at  the  end 

of  a  halter, 
And  that  vital  religion  would  dull  and 

grow  callous, 
Unrefreshed,   now  and  then,    with    a 

sniff  of  the  gallows),  — 
And  folks  are  beginning  to  think  it  looks 

odd, 
To  choke  a  poor  scamp  lor  the  glory  of 

God; 
And  that  He  who  esteems  the  Virginia 

reel 
A  bait  to  draw  saints  from  their  spiritual 

weal, 
And    regards  the  quadrille    as    a  far 

greater  knavery 
Than  crushing   His  African   children 

with  slavery,  — 
Since  all  who  take  part  in  a  waltz   or 

cotillon 
Are  mounted  for  hell  on  the   Devil's 

own  pillion, 
Who,  as  every  true  orthodox  Christian 

well  knows, 
Approaches  the  heart  through  the  door 

of  the  toes,  — 
That  He,  I  was   saying,  whose  judg- 
ments are  stored 
For  such  as  take  steps  in  despite  of  his 

word, 
Should  look  with  delight  on  the  ago- 
nized prancing 
Of  a    wretch   who   has  not   the   least 

ground  for  his  dancing, 
While  the  State,   standing   by,  sings  a 

verse  from  the  Psalter 
About  offering  to  God  on  his   favorite 

halter, 
And,  when   the  legs  droop  from  their 

twitching  divergence, 


Sells  the  clothes  to  a  Jew,  and  the 
corpse  to  the  surgeons ;  — 

Now,  instead  of  all  this,  I  think  I 
can  direct  you  all 

To  a  criminal  code  both  humane  and 
effectual  ;  — 

I  propose  to  shut  up  every  doer  of 
wrong 

With  these  desperate  books,  for  s.ch 
term,  short  or  long, 

As  by  statute  in  such  cases  made  and 
provided, 

Shall  be  by  your  wise  legislators  de- 
cided : 

Thus:  —  Let  murderers  be  shut,  to  grow 
wiser  and  cooler, 

At  hard  labor  for  life  on  the  works  of 
Miss ; 

Petty  thieves,  kept  from  flagranter 
crimes  by  their  fears, 

Shall  peruse  Yankee  Doodle  a  blank 
term  of  years,  — 

That  American  Punch,  like  the  Eng- 
lish, no  doubt,  — 

Just  the  sugar  and  lemons  and  spirit 
left  out. 

"  But  stay,  here  comes  Tityrus  Gris- 
wold,  and  leads  on 

The  flocks  whom  he  first  plucks  alive, 
and  then  feeds  on,  — 

A  loud-cackling  swarm,  in  whose  feath- 
ers warm-drest, 

He  goes  for  as  perfect  a  —  swan  as  the 
rest. 

"There  comes  Emerson  first,  whose 

rich  words,  every  one, 
Are  like  gold  nails  in  temples  to  hang 

trophies  on, 
Whose  prose  is  grand  verse,  while  his 

verse,  the  Lord  knows, 
Is  some  of  it  pr —     No,  't  is  not  even 

prose  ; 
I  'm  speaking  of  metres  ;  some  poems 

have  welled 
From  those  rare  depths  of  soul  that 

have  ne'er  been  excelled  ; 
They  're   not  epics,   but  that  does  n't 

matter  a  pin, 
In  creating,  the  only  hard  thing  's  to 

begin  ; 
A  grass-blade's  no  easier  to  make  than 

an  oak ; 


A    FABLE  FOR   CRITICS. 


139 


If  you  've  once  found  the  way.  you  've 

achieved  the  grand  stioke  ; 
In  the  worst  of  his  poems  are  mines  of 

rich  matter, 
But  thrown  in  a  heap  with  a  crush  and 

a  clatter  ; 
Nowitisnot  one  thing  noranotheralone 
Makes  a  poem,  but  rather  the  general 

tone, 
The  something  pervading,  uniting  the 

whole, 
The  before  unconceived,  unconceivable 

soul, 
So  that  just  in  removing  this  trifle  or 

that,  you 
Take  away,  as  it  were,  a  chief  limb  of 

the  statue  ; 
Roots,  wood,   bark,  and  leaves  singly 

perfect  may  be, 
But,  clapt  hodge-podge  together,  they 

don't  make  a  tree. 

"  But,  to  come  back  to  Emerson 
(whom,  by  the  way, 

I  believe  we  left  waiting),  —  his  is,  we 
may  say, 

A  Greek  head  on  right  Yankee  shoul- 
ders, whose  range 

Has  Olympus  for  one  pole,  for  t'other 
the  Exchange ; 

He  seems,  to  my  thinking  (although 
I  'm  afraid 

The  comparison  must,  long  ere  this, 
have  been  made), 

A  Plotinus  -  Montaigne,  where  the 
Egyptian's  gold  mist 

And  the  Gascon's  shrewd  wit  cheek- 
by-jowl  coexist ; 

All  admire,  and  yet  scarcely  six  con- 
verts he  's  got 

To  I  don't  (nor  they  either)  exactly 
know  what  : 

For  though  he  builds  glorious  temples, 
't  is  odd 

He  leaves  never  a  doorway  toget  in  agod. 

*T  is  refreshing  to  old-fashioned  people 
like  me 

To  meet  such  a  primitive  Pagan  as  he, 

In  whose  mind  all  creation  is  duly  re- 
spected 

As  parts  of  himself — just  a  little  pro- 
jected ; 

And  who  's  willing  to  worship  the  stars 
and  the  sun, 


A  convert  to—  nothing  but  Emerson. 

So  perfect  a  balance  there  is  in  his 
head, 

That  he  talks  of  things  sometimes  as 
if  they  were  dead  ; 

Life,  nature,  love,  God,  and  affairs  of 
that  sort, 

He  looks  at  as  merely  ideas  ;  in  short. 

As  if  they  were  fossils  stuck  round  in  a 
cabinet, 

Of  such  vast  extent  that  our  earth  's  a 
mere  dab  in  it  ; 

Composed  just  as  he  is  inclined  to  con- 
jecture her, 

Namely,  one  part  pure  earth,  ninety- 
nine  parts  pure  lecturer  ; 

You  are  filled  with  delight  at  his  clear 
demonstration, 

Each  figure,  word,  gesture,  just  fits  the 
occasion, 

With  the  quiet  precision  of  science  he  '11 
sort  'em, 

But  you  can't  help  suspecting  the  whole 
a  post  mortem. 

"  There  are  persons,  mole-blind  to 

the  soul's  make  and  style, 
Who  insist  on  a  likeness  'twixt  him  and 

Carlyle ; 
To  compare  him  with  Plato  would  be 

vastly  fairer, 
Carlyle's  the  more  burly,  but  E.  is  the 

rarer  ; 
He  sees  fewer  objects,  but  clearlier, 

trueljer. 
If  C.  's  as  original,  E.  's  more  peculiar; 
That  he  's  more  of  a  man  you  might 

say  of  the  one, 
Of  the  other  he  's  more  of  an  Emer- 
son ; 
C.  's  the  Titan,  as  shaggy  of  mind  as 

of  limb,  — 
E.  the  clear-eyed  Olympian,  rapid  and 

slim  ; 
The  one  's  two  thirds  Norseman,  the 

other  half  Greek, 
Where  the  one  's  most  abounding,  the 

other  's  to  seek  ; 
C.'s  generals  require  to  be  seen  in  the 

mass,  — 
E.'s  specialties  gain  if  enlarged  by  the 

glass  ; 
C.  gives  nature  and  God  his  own  fits  of 

the  blues, 


i4o 


A    FABLE  FOR   CRITICS. 


And  rims  common-sense  things  with 

mystical  hues,  — 
E   sits  in  a  mystery  calm  and  intense, 
And  looks  coolly  around  him  with  sharp 

common  sense ; 
C.  shows  you  how  every-day  matters 
unite  . 

With  the  dim  transdiurnal  recesses  ot 

night, — 
While  E.,  in  a  plain,  preternatural  way, 
Makes  mysteries  matters  of  mere  every 
day ;  .       ,    , 

C.  draws  all  his  characters  quite  a  la 

Fuseli,  — 
He  don't  sketch  their  bundles  of  mus- 
cles and  thews  illy, 
But  he  paints  with  a  brush  so  untamed 

and  profuse, 
They   seem   nothing  but    bundles   ot 

muscles  and  thews  ; 
E.  is  rather  like  Flaxman,  lines  strait 

and  severe, 
And  a  colorless  outline,  but  full,  round, 

and  clear  ;  —  • 

To  the  men  he  thinks  worthy  he  frankly 

accords 
The  design  of  a  white  marble  statue  in 

words. 
C.  labors  to  get  at  the  centre,  and  then 
Take  a  reckoning   from   there   of   his 

actions  and  men  ; 
E.  calmly  assumes  the  said  centre  as 

granted, 
And,  given  himself,  has  whatever  is 
wanted. 

"  He  has  imitators  in  scores,  who  omit 
No  part  of  the  man  but  his  wisdom 

and  wit,  — 
Who  go  carefully  o'er  the  sky-blue  ot 

his  brain,  .  . 

And  when   he  has  skimmed  it  once, 

skim  it  again  ; 
If  at  all  they  resemble  him,  you  may  be 

sure  it  is  _  . 

Because  their  shoals  mirror  his  mists 

and  obscurities, 
As  a  mud-puddle  seems  deep  as  heaven 

for  a  minute,  , 

While  a  cloud  that  floats  o'er  is  reflected 

within  it. 

"  There  comes ,  for  instance  ;  to 

see  him  's  rare  sport, 


Tread  in   Emerson's  tracks  with  legs 

painfully  short ; 
How   he   jumps,  how   he  strains,  and 

gets  red  in  the  face, 
To  keep  step  with  the  mystagogue  s 

natural  pace ! 
He  follows  as  close  as  a  stick  to  a  rocket. 
His    fingers    exploring    the    prophet's 

each  pocket. 
Fie,   for  shame,   brother    bard ;    with 

good  fruit  of  your  own, 
Can't  you  let  Neighbor  Emerson's  or- 
chards alone  ? 
Besides,   'tis  no  use,  you'll  not  find 

e'en  a  core,  —  . 
has  picked  up  all  the  windfalls  be- 
fore. 
They  might  strip  every  tree,  and  £.. 

never  would  catch  'em, 
His  Hesperides  have  no  rude  dragon 

to  watch  'em  ; 
When  they    send  him  a  dishful,  and 

ask  him  to  try  'em, 
He  never  suspects  how  the  sly  rogues- 
came  by  'em  ; 
He  wonders  why  't  is  there  are  none 

such  his  trees  on, 
And  thinks  'em  the  best  he  has  tasted 
this  season. 

"Yonder,  calm  as  a  cloud,  Alcott 
stalks  in  a  dream, 
And  fancies  himself  in  thy  groves,  Aca- 
deme, 
With   the   Parthenon    nigh,   and    the 

olive-trees  o'er  him, 
And  never  a  fact   to   perplex   him   or 

bore  him, 
With   a  snug   room   at  Plato  s,   when 

night  comes,  to  walk  to, 
And  people  from  morning  till  midnight 

to  talk  to, 
And  from  midnight  till  morning,  nor 

snore  in  their  listening  ;  — 
So  he  muses,  his  face  with  the  joy  ot 

it  glistening,         _ 
For  his  highest  conceit  of  a  happiest 

sttitc  IS 
Where  they  'd  live  upon  acoms,  and 

hear  him  talk  gratis  ; 
And  indeed,  1   believe,  no  man  ever 

talked  better,  — 
Each  sentence  hangs  perfectly  poisfc* 
to  a  letter  ; 


A    FABLE  FOR   CRITICS. 


■4" 


He  seems  piling  words,  but  there  's 
royal  dust  hid 

In  the  heart  of  each  sky-piercing  pyr- 
amid. 

While  he  talks  he  is  great,  but  goes 
out  like  a  taper, 

If  you  shut  him  up  closely  with  pen, 
ink,  and  paper  ; 

Yet  his  fingers  itch  for  'em  from  morn- 
ing till  night, 

And  he  thinks  he  does  wrong  if  he 
don't  always  write  ; 

In  this,  as  in  all  things,  a  lamb  among 
men, 

He  goes  to  sure  death  when  he  goes 
to  his  pen. 

"Close  behind  him  is  Brownson,  his 
mouth  very  full 

With  attempting  to  gulp  a  Gregorian 
bull ; 

Who  contrives,  spite  of  that,  to  pour 
out  as  he  goes 

A  stream  of  transparent  and  forcible 
prose ; 

He  shifts  quite  about,  then  proceeds  to 
expound 

That  't  is  merely  the  earth,  not  himself, 
that  turns  round, 

And  wishes  it  clearly  impressed  on  your 
mind 

That  the  weathercock  rules  and  not  fol- 
lows the  wind ; 

Proving  first,  then  as  deftly  confuting 
each  side, 

With  no  doctrine  pleased  that  's  not 
somewhere  denied, 

He  lays  the  denier  away  on  the  shelf, 

And  then  —  down  beside  him  lies  grave- 
ly himself. 

He  's  the  Salt  River  boatman,  who  al- 
ways stands  willing 

To  convey  friend  or  foe  without  charg- 
ing a  shilling, 

And  so  fond  of  the  trip  that,  when 
leisure  's  to  spare, 

He  '11  row  himself  up,  if  he  can't  get 
a  fare. 

The  worst  of  it  is,  that  his  logic  's  so 
strong, 

That  of  two  sides  he  commonly  chooses 
the  wrong : 

If  there  is  only  one,  why,  he  '11  split  it 
in  two, 


And  first  pummel  this  half,  then  that, 

black  and  blue. 
That  white  's  white  needs  no  proof,  but 

it  takes  a  deep  fellow 
To  prove  it  jet-black,  and  that  jet-black 

is  yellow. 
He  offers  the  true  faith  to  drink  in  a 

sieve,  — 
When    it    reaches    your    lips    there  's 

naught  left  to  believe 
But  a  few  silly-(syllo-,  I  mean,)  -gisms 

that  squ^.t  'em 
Like  tadpoles,  o'erjoyed  with  the  mud 

at  the  bottom. 

"  There  is  Willis,  all  natty  and  jaunty 

and  gay, 
Who  says  his  best  things  in  so  foppish 

a  way, 
With  conceits  and  pet  phrases  so  thick- 
ly o'erlaying  'em, 
That    one    hardly   knows   whether  to 

thank  him  for  saying  'em  ; 
Over-ornament  ruins  both   poem   and 

prose, 
Just  conceive  of  a  Muse  with  a  ring  in 

her  nose  ! 
His  prose  had  a  natural  grace  of  its  own, 
And  enough  of  it,  too,  if  he  'd  let  it 

alone  ; 
But  he  twitches  and  jerks  so,  one  fairly 

gets  tired, 
And  is  forced  to  forgive  where  he  might 

have  admired  ; 
Yet  whenever  it  slips  away  free  and 

unlaced, 
It  runs  like  a  stream  with  a  musical 

waste. 
And  gurgles  along  with  the  liquidest 

sweep  ;  — 
'Tis  not  deep  as  a  river,  but  who'd 

have  it  deep? 
In  a  country  where  scarcely  a  village  is 

found 
That  has  not  its  author  sublime  and 

profound, 
For  some  one  to  be  slightly  shoal  is  a 

duty, 
And  Willis's  shallowness  makes  half 

his  beauty. 
His  prose  winds  along  with  a  blithe, 

gurgling  error, 
And  reflects  all  of  Heaven  it  can  see  in 

its  mirror. 


I4» 


A    FABLE  FOR    CRITICS. 


•T  is  a  narrowish  strip,  but  it  is  not  an 

artifice,  — 
T  is   the    true    out-of-doors   with    its 

genuine  hearty  phiz  ; 
It  is  Nature  herself,  and  there  's  some- 
thing in  that, 
Since  most  brains  reflect  but  the  crown 

of  a  hat. 
No  volume  I  know  to   read  under  a 

tree, 
More  truly  delicious  than  his  A  1'  Abri, 
With  the   shadows  of  leaves   flowing 

over  your  book, 
Like  ripple-shades  netting  the  bed  of  a 

brook ; 
With  June  coming  softly  your  shoulder 

to  look  over, 
Breezes  waiting  to  turn  every  leaf  of 

your  book  over, 
And  Nature   to   criticise   still   as  you 

read, — 
The  page  that  bears  that  is  a  rare  one 

indeed. 

• 
"  He 's  so  innate  a  cockney,  that  had 

he  been  born 
Where  plain  bare-skin  's  the  only  full- 
dress  that  is  worn, 
He  'd  have  given  his  own  such  an  air 

that  you  'd  say 
'T  had  been  made  by  a  tailor  to  lounge 

in  Broadway. 
His   nature  's   a  glass   of  champagne 

with  the  foam  on't, 
As    tender    as   Fletcher,   as  witty    as 

Beaumont  ; 
So  his  best  things  are  done  in  the  flush 

of  the  moment, 
If  he  wait,  all  is  spoiled  ;  he  may  stir 

it  and  shake  it, 
But,  the  fixed   air  once  gone,  he  can 

never  remake  it. 
He  might  be  a  marvel  of  easy  delight- 
fulness, 
If  he  would  not  sometimes  leave  the  r 

out  of  sprightfulness; 
And  he  ought  to  let  Scripture  alone  — 

't  is  self-slaughter, 
For  nobody  likes   inspiration-and-wa- 

ter. 
He  'd  have  been  just  the  fellow  to  sup 

at  the  Mermaid, 
Cracking  jokes  at  rare  Ben,  with  an 

eye  to  the  barmaid, 


His   wit   running    up    as   Canary   ran 

down,  — 
The   topmost   bright   bubble    on    the 

wave  of  The  Town. 

"  Here  comes  Parker,  the  Orson  of 

parsons,  a  man 
Whom  the  Church  undertook  to  put 

under  her  ban 
(The  Church  of  Socinus,  I  mean),  —  his 

opinions 
Being  So-  (ultra)  -cinian,  they  shocked 

the  Socinians ; 
They  believed  —  faith  I  'm  puzzled  — 

I  think  I  may  call 
Their  belief  a  believing  in  nothing  at 

all, 
Or  something  of  that  sort ;  I  know  they 

all  went 
For  a  general  union  of  total  dissent : 
He  went  a  step  farther;  without  cough 

or  hem, 
He  frankly  avowed  he  believed  not  in 

them  ; 
And,  before  he  could  be  jumbled  up  or 

prevented, 
From  their  orthodox  kind  of  dissent  lie 

dissented. 
There  was  heresy  here,  you  perceive, 

for  the  right 
Of  privately  judging  means  simply  that 

light 
Has  been  granted  to  vie,  for  deciding 

on  you  ; 
And  in  happier  times,  before  Atheism 

grew, 
The  deed  contained  clauses  for  cooking. 

you  too. 
Now  at  Xerxes  and  Knut  we  all  laugh, 

yet  our  foot 
With  the  same  wave  is  wet  that  mocked 

Xerxes  and  Knut  ; 
And  we  all  entertain  a  sincere  private 

notion. 
That  our  Thus  far  I  will  have  a  great 

weight  with  the  ocean. 
'T  was  so  with  our  liberal  Christians  : 

they  bore 
With  sincerest  convic.iun  their  chairs 

to  the  shore  ; 
They  brandished  their  wom  theological 

birches, 
Bade  natural  progress  keep  out  of  the 

Churches, 


A    FABLE  FOR   CRITICS. 


1 43 


And  expected  the  lines  they  had  drawn 

to  prevail 
With  the  fast-rising  tide  to  keep  out  of 

their  pale  ; 
They  had  formerly  dammed  the  Pon- 
tifical See, 
And    the    same   thing,   they   thought, 

would  do  nicely  for  P.  ; 
But  he  turned  up  his  nose  at  their  mur- 
muring and  shamming. 
And  cared  (shall  I  say?)  not  a  d for 

their  damming  ; 
So   they   first   read   him   out   of  their 

church,  and  next  minute 
Turned   round   and   declared   he    had 

never  been  in  it. 
But  the  ban  was  too  small  or  the  man 

was  too  big, 
For  he   recks  not   their  bells,  books, 

and  candles  a  fig 
(He  don't  look  like  a  man  who  would 

stay  treated  shabbily, 
Sophroniscus'  son's  head  o'er  the  fea- 
tures of  Rabelais)  ;  — 
He  bangs  and  beth  wacks  them,  —  their 

backs  he  salutes 
With  the  whole  tree  of  knowledge  torn 

up  by  the  roots  ; 
His  sermons  with  satire  are  plenteously 

verjuiced, 
And  he  talks  in  one  breath  of  Confut- 

zee,  Cass,  Zerduscht, 
Jack    Robinson,    Peter    the    Hermit, 

Strap,  Dathan, 
Cush,   Pitt  (not   the  bottomless,  that 

he  's  no  faith  in), 
Pan,    Pillicock,     Shakespeare.     Paul, 

Toots,  Monsieur  Tonson, 
Aldebaran,  Alcander,  Ben  Khorat,  Ben 

Jonson, 
Thoth,    Richter,    Joe    Smith,    Father 

Paul,  Judah  Monis, 
Musaeus,     Muretus,    kem, —  n    Scor- 

pionis, 
Maccabee,  Maccaboy,   Mac  —  Mac  — 

ah  !  Machiavelli, 
Condorcet,    Count    d'Orsay,    Conder, 

Sav,  Ganganelli, 
Orion,  CTConneil,  the  Chevalier  D'O, 
(See  the  Memoirs  of  Sully,)  to  -nav,  the 

great  toe 
Of  the  statue  of  Jupiter,  now  made  to  pass 
For  that  of  Jew  Peter  by  good  Rom- 
ish brass, 


(You  may  add  for  yourselves,  for  I  find 
it  a  bore, 

All  the  names  you  have  ever,  or  not, 
heard  before, 

And  when  you  've  done  that  —  why, 
invent  a  few  more.) 

His  hearers  can't  tell  you  on  Sunday 
beforehand, 

If  in  that  day's  discourse  they  '11  be 
Bibled  or  Koraned, 

For  he's  seized  the  idea  (by  his  mar- 
tyrdom fired) 

That  all  men  (not  orthodox)  may  be 
inspired  ; 

Yet  though  wisdom  profane  with  his 
creed  he  may  weave  in, 

He  makes  it  quite  clear  what  he  doesn't 
believe  in, 

While  some,  who  decry  him,  think  all 
Kingdom  Come 

Is  a  sort  of  a,  kind  of  a,  species  of 
Hum, 

Of  which,  as  it  were,  so  to  speak,  not  a 
crumb 

Would  be  left,  if  we  did  n't  keep  care- 
fully mum, 

And,  to  make  a  clean  breast,  that  't  is 
perfectly  plain 

That  all  kinds  of  wisdom  are  some- 
what profane  ; 

Now  P. 'screed  than  this  may  be  lighter 
or  darker 

But  in  one  thing,  't  is  clear,  he  has  faith, 
namely  —  Parker ; 

And  this  is  what  makes  him  the  crowd- 
drawing  preacher, 

There  's  a  background  of  god  to  each 
hard-working  feature, 

Every  word  that  he  speaks  has  been 
fierily  furnaced 

In  the  blast  of  a  life  that  has  struggled 
in  earnest  : 

There  he  stands,  looking  more  like  a 
ploughman  than  priest, 

If  not  dreadfully  awkward,  not  grace- 
ful at  least, 

His  gestures  all  downright  and  same, 
if  you  will, 

As  of  brown-fisted  Hobnail  in  hoeing 
a  drill, 

But  his  periods  fall  on  you,  stroke  after 
stroke, 

Like  the  blows  of  a  lumberer  felling  an 
oak, 


144 


A    FABLE   FOR   CRITICS. 


You  forget  the  man  wholly,  you  're 
thankful  to  meet 

With  a  preacher  who  smacks  of  the 
field  and  the  street, 

And  to  hear,  you  're  not  over-particular 
whence. 

Almost  Taylor's  profusion,  quite  Lati- 
mer's sense. 

"There  is  Bryant,  as  quiet,  as  cool, 

and  as  dignified, 
As  a  smooth,  silent  iceberg,  that  never 

is  ignified, 
Save  when  by  reflection  't  is  kindled  o' 

nights 
With  a  semblance  of  flame  by  the  chill 

Northern  Lights. 
He  may  rank  (Griswold  says  so)  first 

bard  of  your  nation  • 

(There  's  no  doubt  that  he  stands  in 

supreme  ice-olation), 
Your  topmost   Parnassus  he  may  set 

his  heel  on, 
But  no  warm  applauses  come,  peal  fol- 
lowing peal  on,  — 
He  's  too  smooth  and  too  polished  to 

hang  any  zeal  on  : 
Unqualified   merits,    I  '11  grant,  if  you 

choose,  he  has  'em, 
But  he  lacks  the  one  merit  of  kindling 

enthusiasm  ; 
If  he  stir  you  at  all,  it  is  just,    on  my 

soul, 
Like   being   stirred   up  with  the  very 

North  Pole. 

"  He  is  very  nice  reading  in  summer, 

but  inter 
Nos,  we  don't  want  extra   freezing  in 

winter ; 
Take  him  up  in  the  depth  of  July,  my 

advice  is, 
When  you  feel  an  Egyptian  devotion  to 

ices. 
But  deduct  all  you  can,  there  's  enough 

that 's  right  good  in  him, 
He  has  a  true  soul  for  field,  river,  and 

wood  in  him  ; 
And  his   heart,  in  the  midst  of  brick 

walls,  or  where'er  it  is, 
Glows,     softens,   and  thrills   with   the 

tenderest  charities  — 
To  you  mortals  that  delve  in  this  trade- 
ridden  planet? 


No,  to  old  Berkshire's  hills,  with  their 

limestone  and  granite. 
If  you  're   one  who  in  loco  (add  faco 

here)  desipis, 
You  will  get  of  his  outermost  heart  (as  I 

guess)  a  piece  ; 
But  you  'd  get  deeper  down  if  you  came 

as  a  precipice, 
And  would  break  the  last  seal  of  its  in- 

wardest  fountain, 
If  you  only  could  palm  yourself  off  for 

a  mountain. 
Mr.  Quivis,  or  somebody  quite  as  dis- 
cerning, 
Some  scholar  who  's  hourly  expecting 

his  learning. 
Calls    B.    the   American  Wordsworth  ; 

but  Wordsworth 
Is  worth  near  as  much   as   your  whole 

tuneful  herd  's  worth. 
No,  don't  be  absurd,  he  's  an  excellent 

Bryant  ; 
But,  my  friends,    you  '11   endanger  the 

life  of  your  client, 
By  attempting  to  stretch  him  up  into  a 

giant : 
If  you  choose  to  compare  him,  I  think 

there  are  two  per- 
-sons  fit  for  a  parallel  —  Thomson  and 

Cowper ;  * 
I  don't  mean  exactly,  —  there's  some- 
thing of  each. 
There's  T.'s  love  of  nature,  C.'s  pen- 
chant to  preach  ; 
Just  mix  up  their  minds  so  that  C.'s 

spice  of  craziness 
Shall  balance  and  neutralize  T.'s  turn 

for  laziness, 
And  it  gives   you   a  brain  cool,    quite 

frictionless,  quiet, 
Whose  internal  police  nips  the  buds  of 

all  riot,  — 
A  brain  like  a  permanent   strait-jacket 

put  on 
The  heart  which  strives  vainly  to  burst 

off  a  button,  — 
A  brain  which,  without  being  slow  of 

mechanic, 

*  To  demonstrate  quickly  and  easily  how  per- 
-versely  absurd  *t  is  to  sound  this  name  Ccrw- 

per, 
As  people  in  general  call  him  named  super, 
I  remark  that  he  rhymes  it  himself  with  horse- 
trooper. 


A    FABLE   FOR   CRITICS. 


MS 


Does  more  than  a  larger  less  drilled, 

more  volcanic ; 
He 's   a   Cowper  condensed,    with   no 

craziness  bitten, 
And  the  advantage   that   Wordsworth 

before  him  has  written. 

"  But,  my  dear  little  bardlings,  don't 

prick  up  your  ears 
Nor  suppose    I   would  rank   you   and 

Bryant  as  peers  ; 
If  I  call  him  an  iceberg,  I  don't  mean 

to  say 
There  is  nothing  in  that  which  is  grand 

in  its  way ; 
He  is  almost  the  one  of  your  poets  that 

knows 
How  much  grace,  strength,  and  dignity 

lie  in  Repose ; 
if  he  sometimes  fall  short,  he  is  too 

wise  to  mar 
Hi=.  thought's  modest  fulness  by  going 

too  far ; 
'T  would  be  well  if  your  authors  should 

all  make  a  trial 
Of  what  virtue  there  is  in  severe  self- 

de.iial, 
And  measure  their  writings  by  Hesiod's 

staff, 
Which  teaches  that  all  has  less  value 

than  halt. 

"  There  is  Whittier,  whose  swelling 
and  veheme.it  heart 

Strains  the  strait-bieasted  drab  of  the 
Quaker  apart, 

And  reveals  the  live  Man,  still  supreme 
and  erect. 

Underneath  the  bemummying  wrappers 
of  sect  ; 

There  was  ne'er  a  man  born  who  had 
more  of  the  swing 

Of  the  true  lyric  bard  and  all  that  kind 
of  thing ; 

And  his  failures  arise  (though  perhaps 
he  don't  know  it) 

From  the  very  same  cjuse  that  has 
made  him  a  poet,  — 

A  fervor  of  mind  which  knows  no  sep- 
aration 

'Twixt  simple  excitems/it  and  pure  in- 
spiration, 

As  my  Pythoness  erst  sometimes  erred 
from  not  know.ng 


If  'twere  I  or  mere  wind  through  her 
tripod  was  blowing  ; 

Let  his  mind  once  get  head  in   its   fa- 
vorite direction 

And  the   torrent   of  verse  bursts  the 
dams  of  reflection, 

While,  borne  with  the  rush  of  the  metre 
along, 

The  poet  may  chance  to  go  right  or  go 
wrong, 

Content  with  the  whirl  and  delirium  of 
song ; 

Then  his   grammar  s  not   always  cor- 
rect, nor  his  rhymes, 

And   he  's  prone    to   repeat   his    own 
lyrics  sometimes, 

Not   his  best,    though,    for  those   are 
struck  off  at  white-heats 

When  the   heart   in  his   breast  like   a 
trip-hammer  beats. 

And  can  ne  'er  be  repeated  again  any 
more 

Than  they  could  have  been   carefully 
plotted  before  : 

Like  old  what's-his-name   there  at  the 
battle  of  Hastings 

(Who,  however,  gave  more  than  mere 
rhythmical  bastings), 

Our    Quaker    leads    off   metaphorical 
fights 

For  reform  and  whatever  they  call  hu- 
man rights, 

Both  singing  and  striking  in  front  of  the 
war 

And  hitting  his  foes  with  the  mallet  of 
Thor  : 

Anne  haec,  one  exclaims,  on  behold- 
ing his  knocks, 
Vestis  filii  tut,  O  leather-clad  Fox? 

Can  that  be  thy  son,  in  the  battle's  mid 
din, 

Preaching  brotherly  love  and  then  driv- 
ing it  in 

To  the  brain  of  the  tough  oldGoliah  of 
sin, 

With  the   smoothest   of  pebbles   from 

Castaly's  spring 
Impressed    on    his  hard   moral   sense 
with  a  sling? 

"  All  honor  and  praise  to  the  right- 
hearted  bard 
Who  was  true  to  The  Voice  when  such 
service  was  hard. 


i46 


A    FABLE  FOR   CRITICS. 


Who  himself  was  so  free  he  dared  sing 

for  the  slave 
When  to  look  but  a  protest  in  silence 

was  brave  ; 
AH  honor  and  praise  to  the  women  and 

men 
Who  spoke  out  for  the  dumb  and  the 

down-trodden  then  ! 
I  need  not  to  name  them,  already  for 

each 
I  see  History  preparing  the  statue  and 

niche  ; 
They  were  harsh,  but  shall  you  be  so 

shocked  at  hard  words 
Who  have  beaten  your  pruning-hooks 

up  into  swords, 
Whose  rewards  and  hurrahs  men  are 

surer  to  gain 
By  the  reaping  of  men  and  of  women 

than  grain  ? 
Why  should  you  stand  aghast  at  their 

fierce  wordy  war,  if 
You  scalp  one  another  for  Bank  or  for 

Tariff? 
Your    calling    them    cut -throats    and 

knaves  all  day  long 
Don't    prove    that    the    use    of   hard 

language  is  wrong  ; 
While  the  World's  heart  beats  quicker 

to  think  of  such  men 
As    signed    Tyranny's    doom   with    a 

bloodv  steel-pen, 
While    on    "Fourth-of- Julys    beardless 

orators  fright  one 
With  hints  at  Harmodius  and  Aristo- 

geiton, 
You  need  not  look  shy  at  your  sisters 

and  brothers 
Who  stab  with  sharp  words  for  the  free- 
dom of  others  ;  — 
No,  a  wreath,  twine  a  wreath  for  the 

loyal  and  true 
Who,  for  sake  of  the  many,  dared  stand 

with  the  few, 
Not  of  blood-spattered  laurel  for  ene- 
mies braved, 
But  of  broad,   peaceful  oak-leaves  for 

citizei  s  saved  ! 

''  Here    comes    Dana,    abstractedly 

loitering  along. 
Involved  in  a  paulo-post  future  of  song, 
Who  '11  be  going  to  write  what  '11  never 

be  written 


Till  the  Muse,  ere  he  thinks  of  it,  gives 
him  the  mitten,  — 

Who  is  so  well  aware  of  how  things 
should  be  done, 

That  his  own  works  displease  him  be- 
fore they  're  begun,  — 

Who  so  well  all  that  makes  up  good 
poetry  knows, 

That  the  best  of  his  poems  is  written 
in  prose  ; 

All  saddled  and  bridled  stood  Pegasus 
waiting, 

He  was  booted  and  spurred,  but  he 
loitered  debating  ; 

In  a  very  grave  question  his  soul  was 
immersed,  — 

Which  foot  in  the  stirrup  he  ought  to 
put  first ; 

And,  while  this  point  and  that  he  judi- 
cially dwelt  on. 

He,  somehow  or  other,  had  written 
Paul  Felton, 

Whose  beauties  or  faults,  whichsoever 
you  see  there, 

You  '11  allow  only  genius  could  hit 
upon  either. 

That  he  once  was  the  Idle  Man  none 
will  deplore. 

But  I  fear  he  will  never  be  anything 
more  ; 

The  ocean  of  song  heaves  and  glitters 
before  him. 

The  depth  and  the  vastness  and  long- 
ing sweep  o'er  him, 

He  knows  every  breaker  arid  shoal  on 
the  chart, 

HehastheCoast  Pilotandsoonbyheart, 

Yet  he  spends  his  whole  life,  like  the 
man  in  the  fable, 

In  learning  to  swim  on  his  library- 
table. 

"There  swaggers  John  Neal,  who 
has  wasted  in  Maine 

The  sinews  and  chords  of  his  pugilist 
brain, 

Who  might  have  been  poet,  but  that,  in 
its  stead,  he 

Preferred  to  believe  that  he  was  so  al- 
ready ; 

Too  hasty  to  wait  till  Art's  ripe  fruit 
should  drop, 

He  must  pelt  down  an  unripe  and 
colicky  crop ; 


A    FABLE  FOR   CRITICS. 


i47 


Who   took  to  the   law,   and   had   this 

sterling  plea  for  it, 
It  required   him  to  quarrel,  and  paid 

him  a  fee  for  it  ; 
A  man  who  's  made  less  than  he  might 

have,  because 
He  always  has  thought  himself  more 

than  he  was,  — 
Who,  with  very  good  natural  gifts  as  a 

bard, 
Broke  the  strings  of  his  lyre  out  by 

striking  too  hard, 
And  cracked  half  the  notes  of  a  truly 

fine  voice, 
Because  song  drew  less  instant  atten- 
tion than  noise. 
Ah,   men   do    not    know    how    much 

strength  is  in  poise, 
That  he  goes  the  farthest  who  goes  far 

enough, 
And  that  all  beyond  that  is  just  bother 

and  stuff. 
No  vain  man  matures,  he  makes  too 

much  new  wood  ; 
His  blooms  are  too  thick  for  the  fruit 

to  be  good  ; 
'Tis  the  modest  man  ripens,   't  is  he 

that  achieves, 
Just  what 's  needed  of  sunshine  and 

shade  he  receives ; 
Grapes,    to   mellow,    require    the   cool 

dark  of  their  leaves  ; 
Neal   wants  balance  ;    he   throws  his 

mind  always  too  far, 
Whisking  out  flocks  of   comets,   but 

never  a  star ; 
He  has  so  much  muscle,  and  loves  so 

to  show  it. 
That  he  strips  himself  naked  to  prove 

he  's  a  poet, 
And,  to  show  he  could  leap  Art's  wide 

ditch,  if  he  tried, 
Jumps  clean  o'er  it,  and  into  the  hedge 

t'other  side. 
He  has  strength,  but  there  's  nothing 

about  him  in  keeping  ; 
One  gets  surelier  onward  by  walking 

than  leaping  ; 
He  has  used  his  own  sinews  himself  to 

distress, 
And  had  done  vastly  more  had  he  done 

vastly  less ; 
In  letters,  too  soon  is  as  bad  as  too  late ; 
Could  he  only  have  waited  he  might 

have  been  great ; 


But  he  plumped  into  Helicon  up  to  the 

waist, 
And  muddied  the  stream  ere  he  took 

his  first  taste. 

"There  is  Hawthorne,  with  genius 
so  shrinking  and  rare 

That  you  hardly  at  first  see  the  strength 
that  is  there  ; 

A  frame  so  robust,  with  a  nature  so 
sweet, 

So  earnest,  so  graceful,  so  solid,  so  fleet, 

Is  worth  a  descent  from  Olympus  to 
meet  ; 

'T  is  as  if  a  rough  oak  that  for  ages  had 
stood, 

With  his  gnarled  bony  branches  like 
ribs  of  the  wood, 

Should  bloom,  after  cycles  of  struggle 
and  scathe, 

With  a  single  anemone  trembly  and 
rathe  ; 

His  strength  is  so  tender,  his  wildness 
so  meek, 

That  a  suitable  parallel  sets  one  to 
seek,  — 

He  's  a  John  Bunyan  Fouqu^,  a  Puri- 
tan Tieck  ; 

When  nature  was  shaping  him,  clay 
was  not  granted 

For  making  so  full-sized  a  man  as  she 
wanted, 

So,  to  fill  out  her  model,  a  little  she 
spared 

From  some  finer-grained  stuff  for  a 
woman  prepared, 

And  she  could  not  have  hit  a  more  ex- 
cellent plan 

For  making  him  fully  and  perfectly 
man. 

The  success  of  her  scheme  gave  her  so 
much  delight, 

That  she  tried  it  again,  shortly  after,  in 
Dwight ; 

Only,  while  she  was  kneading  and  shap- 
ing the  clay, 

She  sang  to  her  work  in  her  sweet  child- 
ish way, 

And  found,  when  she  'd  put  the  last 
touch  to  his  soul, 

That  the  music  had  somehow  got  mixed 
with  the  whole. 

"  Here  's  Cooper,  who  '*  written  six 
volumes  to  show 


148 


A    FABLE  FOR   CRITICS. 


He  's  as  good  as  a  lord :   well,  let 's 

grant  that  he  's  so; 
If  a  person  prefer  that  description  of 

praise, 
Why,    a   coronet's   certainly    cheaper 

than  bays  ; 
But  need  take  no  pains  to  convince  us 

he  's  not 
(As  his  enemies  say)    the    American 

Scott. 
Choose   any  twelve  men,   and  let  C. 

read  aloud 
That  one  of  his  novels  of  which  he  's 

most  proud, 
And  1  'd  lay  any  bet  that,  without  ever 

quitting 
Their  box,  they  'd  be  all,  to  a  man,  for 

acquitting. 
He  has  drawn  you  onecharacter,  though, 

that  is  new, 
One  wildflower   he's  plucked   that  is 

wet  with  the  dew 
Of  this  fresh  Western  world,  and,  the 

thing  not  to  mince, 
He  has  done  naught  but  copy  it  ill  ever 

since  ; 
His  Indians,  with  proper  respect  be  it 

said, 
Are  just  Natty  Bumpo,  daubed  over 

with  red, 
And  his  very  Long  Toms  are  the  same 

useful  Nat, 
Rigged  up  in   duck  pants  and  a  sou'- 
wester hat 
(Though    once    in    a    Coffin,   a  good 

chance  was  found 
To  have  slipped  the  old  fellow  away 

underground). 
All  his  other  men-figures  are   clothes 

upon  sticks, 
The  deritiire  chemise  of  a  man  in  a 

fix 
(As  a  captain  besieged,  when  his  garri- 
son 's  small, 
Sets  up  caps  upon  poles  to  be  seen  o'er 

the  wall)  ; 
And  the   women   he   draws  from   one 

model  don't  vary, 
All  sappy  as  maples  and  flat  as  a  prai- 
rie. 
When  a  character  's  wanted,  he  goes  to 

the  task 
As  a  cooper  would  do  in  composing  a 
cask  ; 


He  picks  out  the  staves,  of  their  quali- 
ties heedful, 

Just  hoops  them  together  as  tight  as  is 
needful, 

And,  if  the  best  fortune  should  crown 
the  attempt,  he 

Has  made  at  the  most  something  wood- 
en and  empty. 

"  Don't  suppose  I  would  underrate 
Cooper's  abilities  ; 

If  I  thought  you  'd  do  that,  I  should 
feel  very  ill  at  ease  ; 

The  men  who  have  given  to  one  char- 
acter life 

And  objective  existence  are  not  very 
rife  ; 

You  may  number  them  all,  both  prose- 
writers  and  singers, 

Without  overrunning  the  bounds  of 
your  fingers, 

And  Natty  won't  go  to  oblivion  quicker 

Than  Adams  the  parson  or  Primrose 
the  vicar. 

"There  is  one  thing  in  Cooper  I 
like,  too,  and  that  is 

That  on  manners  he  lectures  his  coun- 
trymen gratis  ; 

Not  precisely  so  either,  because,  for  a 
rarity, 

He  is  paid  for  his  tickets  in  unpopu- 
larity. 

Now  he  may  overcharge  his  American 
pictures, 

But  you '11  grant  there's  a  good  deal 
of  truth  in  his  strictures  : 

And  I  honor  .the  man  who  is  willing  to 
sink 

Half  his  present  repute  for  the  freedom 
to  think, 

And,  when  he  has  thought,  be  his 
cause  strong  or  weak, 

Will  risk  t'other  half  for  the  freedom 
to  speak, 

Caring  naught  for  what  vengeance  the 
mob  has  in  store, 

Let  that  mob  be  the  upper  ten  thou- 
sand or  lower. 

"There  are   truths   you   Americans 
need  to  be  told, 
And  it  never  Ml  refute  them  to  swaggei 
and  scold ; 


A    FABLE   FOR   CRITICS. 


149 


John  Bull,  looking  o'er  the  Atlantic,  in 

choler 
At  your   aptness   for   trade,    says  you 

worship  the  dollar : 
But  to  scorn  such  eye-dollar-try  's  what 

very  few  do, 
And  John  goes  to  that  church  as  often 

as  you  do. 
No  matter  what  John  says,  don't  try 

to  outcrow  him, 
'T  is  enough  to  go  quietly  on  and  out- 
grow him  ; 
Like  most  fathers,  Bull  hates  to  see 

Number  One  _ 
Displacing  himself  in  the  mind  of  his 

son, 
And  detests  the  same  faults  in  himself 

he  'd  neglected 
When  he  sees  them  again  in  his  child's 

glass  reflected  ; 
To  love  one  another  you  're  too  like  by 

half; 
If  he  is  a  bull,  you  're  a  pretty  stout 

calf, 
And  tear  your  own  pasture  for  naught 
»         but  to  show 

What  a  nice  pair  of  horns  you  're  be- 
ginning to  grow. 

"There   are   one    or    two   things   I 

should  just  like  to  hint, 
For  you  don't  often  get  the  truth  told 

you  in  print ; 
The  most  of  you  (this  is  what  strikes 

all  beholders) 
Have  a  mental  and  physical  stoop  in 

the  shoulders ; 
Though  you  ought  to  be  free  as  the 

winds  and  the  waves, 
You  've  the  gait  and  the  manners  of 

runaway  slaves  ; 
Though  you  brag  of  your  New  World, 

you  don't  half  believe  in  it, 
And  as  much  of  the  Old  as  is  possible 

weave  in  it  ; 
Your  goddess  of  freedom,  a  tight,  bux- 
om girl, 
With  lips  like  a  cherry  and  teeth  like 

a  pearl, 
With   eyes  bold  as  Here's,  and   hair 

floating  free, 
And  full  of  the  sun  as  the  spray  of  the  sea, 
Who  can  sing  at  a  husking  or  romp  at 

a  shearing, 


Who  can  trip  through  the  forests  alone 

without  fearing, 
Who  can   drive  home  the  cows  with  a 

song  through  the  grass, 
Keeps  glancing    aside    into    Europe's 

cracked  glass, 
Hides  her  red  hands  in  gloves,  pinches 

up  her  lithe  waist, 
And     makes    herself    wretched    with 

transmarine  taste  ; 
She  loses  her  fresh  country  charm  when 

she  takes 
Any  mirror  except  her  own  rivers  and 

lakes. 


"  You  steal  Englishmen's  books  and 
think  Englishmen's  thought, 

With  their  salt  on  her  tail  your  wild 
eagle  is  caught ; 

Your  literature  suits  its  each  whisper 
and  motion 

To  what  will  be  thought  of  it  over  the 
ocean  ; 

The  cast  clothes  of  Europe  your  states- 
manship tries 

And  mumbles  again  the  old  blarneys 
and  lies ;  — 

Forget  Europe  wholly,  your  veins 
throb  with  blood, 

To  which  the  dull  current  in  hers  is 
but  mud  ; 

Let  her  sneer,  let  her  say  your  experi- 
ment fails, 

In  her  voice  there  's  a  tremble  e'en 
now  while  she  rails, 

And  your  shore  will  soon  be  in  the  na- 
ture of  things 

Covered  thick  with  gilt  driftwood  of 
runaway  kings. 

Where  alone,  as  it  were  in  a  Longfel- 
low's Waif, 

Her  fugitive  pieces  will  find  themselves 
safe. 

O  my  friends,  thank  your  God,  if  you 
have  one,  that  he 

'Twixt  the  Old  World  and  you  set  the 
gulf  of  a  sea  : 

Be  strong-backed,  brown-handed,  up- 
right as  your  pines, 

By  the  scale  of  a  hemisphere  shape 
your  designs. 

Be  true  to  yourselves  and  this  new  nine- 
teenth age, 


ISO 


A    FABLE  FOR   CRITICS. 


As  a  statue  by  Powers,  or  a  picture  by 
Page, 

Plough,  sail,  forge,  build,  carve,  paint, 
all  things  make  new, 

To  your  own  New- World  instincts  con- 
trive to  be  true, 

Keep  your  ears  open  wide  to  the  Fu- 
ture's first  call. 

Be  whatever  you  will-,  but  yourselves 
first  of  all, 

Stand  fronting  the  dawn  on  Toil's 
heaven-scaling  peaks, 

And  become  my  new  race  of  more  prac- 
tical Greeks.  — 

Hem  !  your  likeness  at  present,  I  shud- 
der to  tell  o't, 

Is  that  you  have  your  slaves,  and  the 
Greek  had  his  helot." 

Here  a  gentleman  present,  who  had 

in  his  attic 
More  pepper  than  brains,  shrieked,  — 

"The  man  's  a  fanatic, 
I  'm  a  capital  tailor  with  warm  tar  and 

feathers, 
And  will  make  him  a  suit  that  '11  serve 

in  all  weathers  ; 
But  we  '11  argue  the  point  first,  I  'm 

willing  to  reason  't, 
Palaver    before    condemnation  's    but 

decent  ; 
So,   through  my  humble  person,   Hu- 
manity begs 
Of  the  friends  of  true  freedom  a  loan 

of  bad  eggs." 
But  Apollo  let  one  such  a  look  of  his 

show  forth 
As  when  rjie  vvkti  eotxui^,  and  so  forth, 
And  the  gentleman  somehow  slunk  out 

of  the  way, 
But,  as  he  was  going,  gained  courage 

to  say, — 
"  At  slavery  in  the  abstract  my  whole 

soul  rebels, 
I  am  as  strongly  opposed  to't  as  any 

one  else." 
"  Ay,   no   doubt,  but  whenever   I  've 

happened  to  meet 
With  a  wrong  or  a  crime,  it  is  always 

concrete," 
Answered  Phoebus  severely  ;  then  turn- 
ing to  us, 
"The  mistake  of  such  fellows  as  just 

made  the  fuss 


Is  only  in  taking  a  great  busy  nation 
For  a  part  of  their  pitiful  cotton-plan- 
tation. — 

But  there  conies  Miranda,  Zeus  I  where 
shall  I  flee  to? 

She  has  such  a  penchant  for  bothering 
me  too  ! 

She  always  keeps  asking  if  I  don't  ob- 
serve a 

Particular  likeness  'twixt  her  and 
Minerva  ; 

She  tells  me  my  efforts  in  verse  are 
quite  clever  ;  — 

She  's  been  travelling  now,  and  will  be 
worse  than  ever  ; 

One  would  think,  though,  a  sharp- 
sighted  noter  she  'd  be 

Of  all  that  's  worth  mentioning  over 
the  sea, 

For  a  woman  must  surely  see  well,  if 
she  try, 

The  whole  of  whose  being 's  a  capital  I : 

She  will  take  an  old  notion,  and  make 
it  her  own, 

By  saying  it  o'er  in  her  Sibylline  tone, 

Or  persuade  you  't  is  something  tre- 
mendously deep, 

By  repeating  it  so  as  to  put  you  to 
sleep  ; 

And  she  well  may  defy  any  mortal  *o 
see  through  it, 

When  once  she  has  mixed  up  her  in- 
finite me  through  it. 

There  is  one  thing  she  owns  in  her 
own  single  right, 

It  is  native  and  genuine  —  namely,  her 
spite  : 

Though,  when  acting  as  censor,  she 
privately  blows 

A  censer  of  vanity  'neath  her  own  nose." 

Here  Miranda  came  up,  and  said, 
"Phoebus!  you-know 

That  the  infinite  Soul  has  its  infinite 
woe, 

As  I  ought  to  know,  having  lived  cheek 
by  jowl, 

Since  the  day  I  was  born,  with  the  In- 
finite Soul  ; 

I  myself  introduced,  I  myself,  I  alone, 

To  my  Land's  better  life  authors  solely 
my  own, 

Who  the  sad  heart  of  earth  on  their 
shoulders  have  taken, 


A    FABLE  FOR    CRITICS. 


151 


Whose  works  sound  a  depth  by  Life's 

quiet  unshaken, 
Such  as  Shakespeare,  for  instance,  the 

Bible,  and  Bacon, 
Not  to  mention  my  own  works  ;  Time  's 

nadir  is  fleet, 
And,  as  for  myself,  I  'm  quite  out  of 

conceit  —  " 

"  Quite    out    of  conceit !    I  'm    en- 
chanted to  hear  it," 
Cried   Apollo  aside.     "  Who  'd  have 

thought  she  was  near  it  ? 
To  be  sure,  one  is  apt  to  exhaust  those 

commodities 
He  uses  too  fast,  yet  in  this  case  as 

odd  it  is 
As  if  Neptune  should  say  to  his  turbots 

and  whitings, 
'  I  'm  as  much  out  of  salt  as  Miranda's 

own  writings  ' 
(Which,  as  she  in  her  own  happy  man- 
ner has  said, 
Sound  a  depth,  for't  is  on»"  "f,be  func 

tions  of  lead). 
She  often  has  asked  me  if  I  could  not 

find 
A    place    somewhere    near    me    that 

suited  her  mind  ; 
I  know  but  a  single  one  vacant,  which 

she, 
With  her  rare  talent  that  way,  would  fit 

to  a  T. 
And  it  would  not  imply  any  pause  or 

cessation 
In  the  work  she  esteems  her  peculiar 

vocation,  — 
She  may  enter  on  duty  to-day,  if  she 

chooses, 
And  remain  Tiring-woman  for  life  to 

the  Muses." 

(Miranda  meanwhile  has  succeeded 

in  driving 
Up  into   a   corner,    in    spite   of   their 

striving, 
A  small  flock  of  terrified  victims,  and 

there, 
With   an    I-turn-the-crank-of-the-Uni- 

verse  air 
And  a  tone  which,  at  least  to  my  fancy, 

appears 
Not  so  much  to  be  entering  as  boxing 

your  ears, 


Is  unfolding  a  tale  (of  herself,  I  sur- 
mise), 

For  't  is  dotted  as  thick  as  a  peacock'* 
with  I's. ) 

Apropos  of  Miranda,  I  '11  rest  on  my 
oars 

And  drift  through  a  trifling  digression 
on  bores,  ' 

For,  though  not  wearing  ear-rings  in 
more  maj onim, 

Our  ears  are  kept  bored  just  as  if  we 
still  wore  'em. 

There  was  one  feudal  custom  worth 
keeping,  at  least, 

Roasted  bores  made  a  part  of  each  well- 
ordered  feast, 

And  of  all  quiet  pleasures  the  very  ne 
phis 

Was  in  hunting  wild  bores  as  the  tame 
ones  hunt  us. 

Archasologians,  I  know,  who  have  per- 
sonal fears 

Of  this  wise  application  of  hounds  and 
of  spears, 

Have  tried  to  make  out,  with  a  zeal 
more  than  wonted, 

'T  was  a  kind  of  wild  swine  that  our 
ancestors  hunted ; 

But  I  '11  never  believe  that  the  age 
which  has  strewn 

Europe  o'er  with  cathedrals,  and  other- 
wise shown 

That  it  knew  what  was  what,  could  by 
chance  not  have  known 

(Spending,  too,  its  chief  time  with  its 
buff  on,  no  doubt), 

Which  beast 't  would  improve  the  world 
most  to  thin  out. 

I  divide  bores  myself,  in  the  manner 
of  rifles, 

Into  two  great  divisions,  regardless  of 
trifles  ;  — 

There  's  your  smooth-bore  and  screw- 
bore,  who  do  much  vary 

In  the  weight  of  cold  lead  they  respec- 
tively carry. 

The  smooth-bore  is  one  in  whose  es- 
sence the  mind 

Not  a  corner  nor  cranny  to  cling  by  can 
find; 

You  feel  as  in  nightmares  sometimes, 
when  you  slip 

Down  a  steep  slated  roof,  where  there's 
nothing  to  grip  ; 


'53 


A    FABLE  FOR   CRITICS. 


You  slide  and  you  slide,  the  blank  hor- 
ror increases,  — 

You    had    rather    by   far  be   at   once 
smashed  to  pieces ; 

You  fancy  a  whirlpool  below  white  and 
frothing, 

And  finally  drop  off  and  light  upon  — 
nothing 

The  screw-bore  has  twists  in  him,  faint 
predilections 

For  going  just  wrong  in  the  tritest  di- 
rections ; 

When  he 's  wrong  he  is  flat,  when  he 's 
right  he  can't  show  it, 

He  '11  tell  you  what  Snooks  said  about 
the  new  poet,* 

Or  how  Fogrum  was  outraged  by  Ten- 
nyson's Princess ; 

He  has  spent  all  his  spare  time  and  in- 
tellect since  his 

Birth   in   perusing,   on   each   art    and 
science, 

Just  the  books  in  which  no  one  puts 
any  reliance, 

And  though  nemo,  we  're  told,   horis 
omnibus  sapit. 

The  rule  will  not  fit  him,  however  you 
shape  it, 

For  he  has  a  perennial  foison  of  sappi- 
ness  ; 

He  has  just  enough  force  to  spoil  half 
your  day's  happiness, 

And  to  make  him  a  sort  of  mosquito  to 
be  with, 

But  just  not  enough  to  dispute  or  agree 
with. 

These  sketches  I  made  (not  to  be  too 

explicit) 
From  two  honest  fellows  who  made  me 

a  visit, 
And  broke,  like  the  tale  of  the  Bear 

and  the  Fiddle, 
My  reflections    on   Halleck  short  off 

by  the  middle : 
I  shall  not  now  go  into  the  subject  more 

deeply, 
For  I  notice  that  some  of  my  readers 

look  sleep'ly  ; 

•  (If  you  call  Snooks  an  owl,  he  will  show 
by  his  looks 
That    he 's  morally  certain  you  re  jealous 
cf  Snooks.) 


I  will  barely  remark  that,  'mongst  civi- 
lized nations, 
There  's  none   that  displays  more  ex- 
emplary patience 
Under  all  sorts  of  boring,  at   all  sorts 

of  hours, 
From   all  sorts  of  desperate   persons, 

than  ours. 
Not  to  speak  of  our  papers,  our  State 

legislatures, 
And  other  such  trials  for  sensitive  na- 
tures, 
Just  look  for  a  moment  at  Congress,  — 

appalled, 
My  fancy  shrinks  back  from  the  phan- 
tom it  called  ; 
Why,   there  's   scarcely  a  member  un- 
worthy to  frown 
'Neath   what   Fourier  nicknames  the 

Boreal  crown  ; 
Only   think   what  that   infinite    bore- 

pow'r  could  do 
If  applied  with  a  utilitarian  view  ; 
Suppose,   for  example,  we  shipped   it 

with  care 
To  Sahara's  great  desert  and  let  it  bore 

there ; 
If  they  held  one  short  session  and  did 

nothing  else, 
They  'd  fill  the  whole  waste  with  Arte- 
sian wells. 
But'tis  time  now  with  pen  phonograph- 
ic to  follow 
Through   some   more  of  his   sketches 
our  laughing  Apollo  :  — 

"  There   comes   Harry  Franco,  and, 

as  he  draws  near, 
You  find  that's  a  smile  which  you  took 

for  a  sneer ; 
One  half  of  him  contradicts  t'other  ; 

his  wont 
Is  to  say  very  sharp  things  and  do  very 

blunt  ; 
His  manner  's  as  hard  as  his  feelings 

are  tender, 
And  a  sortie  he  '11  make  when  he  means 

to  surrender  ; 
He 's  in  joke  half  the  time  when   he 

seems  to  be  sternest, 
When  he  seems  to  be  joking,  be  sure 

he  's  in  earnest; 
He  has  common  sense  in  a  way  that 's 

uncommon. 


A    FABLE  FOR   CRITICS. 


153 


Hates   humbug    and    cant,   loves    his 

friends  like  a  woman, 
Builds  his  dislikes   of  cards   and   his 

friendships  of  oak, 
Loves  a   prejudice   better  than  aught 

but  a  joke, 
Is  half   upright   Quaker,    half   down- 
right Come-outer, 
Loves  Freedom  too  well   to  go  stark 

mad  about  her, 
Quite  artless  himself  is  a  lover  of  Art, 
Shuts  you  out  of  his  secrets  and  into 

his  heart, 
And  though  not  a  poet,  yet  all   must 

admire 
In  his  letters  of  Pinto  his  skill  on  the 

liar. 

"  There  comes  Poe,  with  his  raven, 
like  Barnaby  Rudge, 

Three   fifths  of   him   genius   and  two 
fifths  sheer  fudge, 

Who  talks  like   a  book  of  lambs  and 
pentameters, 

In  a  way  to  make  people  of  common 
sense  damn  metres, 

Who  has  written  some  things  quite  the 
best  of  their  kind, 

But    the    heart    somehow    seems    all 
squeezed  out  by  the  mind, 

Who  —  but   hey-day  !     What  's   this  ? 
Messieurs  Mathews  and  Poe, 

You  mustn't  fling  mud-balls  at  Long- 
fellow so, 

Does  it   make  a  man  worse  that  his 
character  's  such 

As  to  make  his  friends  love   him   (as 
you  think)  too  much  ? 

Why,  there  is  not  a  bard  at  this  mo- 
ment alive 

More  willing  than  he  that  his  fellows 
should  thrive  ; 

While  you  are  abusing  him  thus,  even 
now 

He  would  help  either  one  of  you  out  of 
a  slough  ; 

You  may  say  that  he  's  smooth  and  all 
that  till  you  're  hoarse, 

But   remember   that   elegance   also   is 
force  ; 

After  polishing  granite  as  much  as  vou 
will, 

The  heart  keeps  its  tough  old  persist- 
ency still ; 


Deduct  all  you  can  that  still  keeps  you 
at  bay,  — 

Why,  he  '11  live  till  men  weary  of  Col 
lins  and  Gray. 

I  'm  not  over-fond  of  Greek  metres  in 
English, 

To  me  rhyme  's  a  gain,  so  it  be  not  too 
jinglish, 

And  your  modern  hexameter  verses  are 
no  more 

Like  Greek  ones  than  sleek  Mr.  Pope 
is  like  Homer  ; 

As  the  roar  of  the  sea  to  the  coo  of  a 
pigeon  is, 

So,  compared  to  your  moderns,  sounds 
old  Melesigenes  ; 

I    may  be  too  partial,  the   reason,  per- 
haps, o't  is 

That  I  've  heard  the  old  blind  man  re- 
cite his  own  rhapsodies, 

And  my  ear  with   that   music  impreg- 
nate may  be, 

Like  the  poor  exiled  shell  with  the  soul 
of  the  sea, 

Or  as  one  can't  bear  Strauss  when  his 
nature  is  cloven 

To  its  deeps  within  deeps  by  the  stroke 
of  Beethoven  ; 

But,  set  that  aside,  and  'tis  truth  that  I 
speak, 

Had  Theocritus  written  in  English,  not 
Greek, 

I  believe  that  his  exquisite  sense  would 
scarce  change  a  line 

In  that  rare,  tender,  virgin-like  pastor- 
al Evangeline. 

That  's    not  ancient   nor  modern,   its 
place  is  apart 

Where  time  has  no  sway,  in  the  realm 
of  pure  Art, 

'T  is  a  shrine  of  retreat  from   Earth's 
hubbub  and  strife 

As  quiet  and  chaste  as  the  author's  own 
life. 

"There  comes  Philothea,   her  face 

all  aglow, 
She  has  just  been  dividing  some   pool 

creature's  woe, 
And  can't  tell  which  pleases  her  most, 

to  relieve 
Hiswant,orhisstorytohearand  believe; 
No  doubt  against  many  deep  griefs  she 

prevails, 


'54 


A   FABLE   FOR   CRITICS. 


for  her  ear  is  the   refuge   of  destitute 

tales ; 
5he  knows  well  that  silence  is  sorrow's 

best  food, 
And  that  talking  draws   off  from   the 

heart  its  black  blood, 
So  she  '11  listen  with   patience   and  let 

you  unfold 
Your  bundle  of  rags  as  't  were  pure  cloth 

of  gold, 
Which,  indeed,  it  all  turns  to  as  soon 

as  she  's  touched  it, 
And  (to    borrow   a    phrase   from    the 

nursery)  mucked  h  ; 
She  has  such  a  musical  taste,  she  will  go 
Any  distance  to  hear  one  who   draws  a 

long  bow  ; 
She  will   swallow  a  wonder  by   mere 

might  and  main, 
And  thinks  it  geometry's  fault  if  she  's 

fain 
To  consider  things   flat,   inasmuch   as 

they're  plain  ; 
Facts  with   her   are   accomplished,    as 

Frenchmen  would  say,  — 
They  will  prove  all   she  wishes  them 

to  —  either  way, 
And,  as  fact  lies  on   this  side   or  that, 

we  must  try, 
If  we  're  seeking    the   truth,   to    find 

where  it  don't  lie  ; 
I  wastellingher  once  of  a  marvellous  aloe 
That  for  thousands  of  years  had  looked 

spindling  and  sallow, 
And,  though  nursed  by   the  fruitfullest 

powers  of  mud, 
Had  never  vouchsafed  e'en  so  much  as 

a  bud, 
Till  its  owner  remarked  (as  a   sailor, 

you  know, 
Often   will   in   a  calm)  that  it  never 

would  blow, 
For  he  wished  to  exhibit  the  plant,  and 

designed 
That  its  blowing  should   help  him  in 

raising  the  wind  ; 
At  last  it  was  told  him  that  if  he  should 

water 
Its  roots  with  the  blood  of  his  unmarried 

daughter 
(Who  was  born,  as  her  mother,  a  Cal- 

vinist,  said, 
With  William  Law's  serious  caul  on 
her  head), 


It  would  blow  as  the  obstinate  breeze 

did  when  by  a 
Like  decree  of  her  father  died    Iphige- 

nia  ; 
At  first  he  declared  he   himself  would 

be  blowed 
Ere  his   conscience  with   such   a  foul 

crime  he  would  load, 
But  the  thought,  coming  oft,  grew  less 

dark  than  before, 
And  he  mused,  as  each  creditor  knocked 

at  his  door, 
If  this  were  but  done   they  would  dun 

me  no  more ; 
I    told    Philothea    his   struggles    and 

doubts, 
And  how  he  considered   the  ins  and 

the  outs 
Of  the  visions  he  had,  and  the  dreadful 

dyspepsy, 
How  he  went  to  the  seer  that  lives   at 

Po'keepsie, 
How  the  seer  advised  him  to  sleep  on 

it  first 
And  to  read  his  big  volume  in  case  of 

the  worst, 
And  further  advised  he  should  pay  him 

five  dollars 
For  writing  J^um,  3§um,  on  his  wrist- 
bands and  collars  ; 
Three  years  and  ten  days  these  dark 

words  he  had  studied 
When  the  daughter  was  missed,   and 

the  aloe  had  budded  ; 
I  told  how  he  watched  it  grow  large 

and  more  large, 
And  wondered  how  much  for  the  show 

he  should  charge, — 
She  had  listened  with  utter  indifference 

to  this,  till 
I  told  how  it  bloomed,  and  discharging 

its  pistil, 
With  an  aim   the  Eumenides  dictated, 

shot 
The    botanical    filicide    dead    on    the 

spot  ; 
It  had  blown,  but  he  reaped  not  his 

horrible  gains, 
For  it  blew  with  such  force  as  to  biow 

out  his  brains, 
And  the  crime   was  blown    also,  be- 
cause on  the  wad, 
Which  was  paper,  was  writ  '  Visitation 

of  God,' 


A    FABLE   FOR   CRITICS. 


155 


As  wen  as  a  thrilling  account   of  the 

deed 
Which  the  coroner  kindly  allowed  me 

to  read. 

"  Well,  my  friend  took  this   story  up 

just,  to  be  sure, 
As  one  might  a  poor   foundling   that 's 

laid  at  one's  door  ; 
She    combed    it    and    washed   it   and 

clothed  it  and  fed  it, 
And  as  if  'twere  her  own   child  most 

tenderly  bred  it, 
Laid  the  scene  (of  the  legend,  I  mean) 

far  away  a- 
-mong    the    green    vales     underneath 

Himalaya. 
And    by    artist-like   touches,    laid    on 

here  and  there, 
Made  the  whole   thing  so   touching,    I 

frankly  declare 
I  have  read  it  all  thrice,  and,  perhaps 

I  am  weak, 
But  I  found  every  time  there  were  tears 

on  my  cheek. 

"  The  pole,    science     tells  us,    the 

magnet   controls, 
But  she  is  a  magnet  to  emigrant  Poles, 
And  folks  with  a  mission   that   nobody 

knows, 
Throng  thickly  about  her  as  bees  round 

a  rose  ; 
She  can  fill  up  the  carets  in  such,  make 

their  scope 
Converge   to    some   focus    of  rational 

hope, 
And,    with    sympathies    fresh    as   the 

morning,  their  gall 
Can  transmute  into   honey, — but   this 

is  not  all  ; 
Not  only  for  those  she   has  solace,  O, 

say, 
Vice's     desperate     nursling    adrift    in 

Broadway, 
Who  clingest,  with  all  that  is  left   of 

thee  human, 
To  the  last  slender  spar  from  the  wreck 

of  the  woman. 
Hast  thou  not  found  one   shore  where 

those  tired  drooping  feet 
Could  reach  firm  mother-earth,  one  full 

heart  on  whose  beat 
The  soothed  head  in   silence  reposing 

could  hear 


The  chimes  of  far  childhood  throb  back 

on  the  ear  ? 
Ah,    there 's   many  a  beam    from   the 

fountain  of  day 
That,  to  reach  us  unclouded,  must  pass, 

on  its  way, 
Through  the  soul  of  a  woman,  and  hers 

is  wide  ope 
To  the  influence  of  Heaven  as  the  blue 

eyes  of  Hope  ; 
Yes,  a  great   heart   is  hers,  one  that 

dares  to  go  in 
To  the  prison,  the  slave-hut,  the  alleys 

of  sin, 
And  to  bring  into  each,  or  to  find  there, 

some  line 
Of  the  never  completely   out-trampled 

divine  ; 
If  her  heart  at  high  floods  swamps  her 

brain  now  and  then, 
'T  is  but  richer  for  that  when   the  tide 

ebbs  agen, 
As,  after  old  Nile  has   subsided,    his 

plain 
Overflows  with  a  second  broad  deluge 

of  grain  ; 
What  a  wealth  would   it  bring  to  the 

narrow  and  sour 
Could  they  be  as  a  Child  but  for  one 

little  hour  ! 

"What!     Irving?    thrice    welcome, 
,         warm  heart  and  fine  brain, 
You  bring  back  the  happiest  spirit  from 

Spain, 
And  the   gravest  sweet    humor,   that 

ever  were  there 
Since  Cervantes  met  death  in  his  gen- 
tle despair  ; 
Nay,  don't   be   embarrassed,  nor  look 

so  beseeching,  — 
I  sha'  n't  run  directly  against  my  own 

preaching, 
And,    having   just    laughed    at    their 

Raphaels  and  Dantes, 
Go  to  setting  you  up  beside  matchless 

Cervantes  ; 
But  allow  me  to  speak  what  I  honestly 

feel,  — 
To  a  true   poet-heart   add   the  fun  of 

Dick  Steele, 
Throw  in  all  of   Addison,  minus  the 

chill, 
With  the  whole   of  that  partnership's 

stock  and  good-will, 


i& 


A   FABLE  FOR   CRITICS. 


Mix  well,  and  while  stirring,  hum  o'er, 
as  a  spell, 

The  fine  old  English  Gentleman,  sim- 
mer it  well, 

Sweeten  just  to  your  own  private  lik- 
ing, then  strain, 

That  only  the  finest  and  clearest  re- 
main, 

Let  it  stand  out  of  doors  till  a  soul  it 
receives 

From  the  warm  lazy  sun  loitering  down 
through  green  leaves, 

And  you  '11  find  a  choice  nature,  not 
wholly  deserving 

A  name  either  English  or  Yankee,  — 
just  Irving. 

"  There   goes,  —  but    stet    nominis 

umbra,  —  his  name 
You  '11   be  glad   enough,  some  day  or 

other,  to  claim, 
And  will  all  crowd  about  him  and  swear 

that  you  knew  him 
If   some    English     hack-critic    should 

chance  to  review  him 
The  old  porcos  ante  ne  projiciatis 
Margaritas,  for  him  you  have   veri- 
fied gratis  ; 
What  matters  his  name?     Why,  it  may 

be  Sylvester, 
Judd,  Junior,  or  Junius,    Ulysses,   or 

Nestor, 
For  aught  /  know  or  care  ;  't  is  enough 

that  I  look 
On  the  author  of  '  Margaret,'  the  first 

Yankee  book 
With  the  soul  of  Down  East  in't,  and 

things  farther  East, 
As  far  as  the  threshold  of  morning,  at 

least, 
Where  awaits  the    fair  dawn   of   the 

simple  and  true, 
Of  the  day  that  comes  slowly  to  make 

all  things  new. 
'T  has  a  smack  of  pine  woods,  of  bare 

field  and  bleak  hill, 
Such  as  only  the  breed  of  the   May- 
flower could  till  ; 
The  Puritan  's  shown  in  it,  tough  to  the 

core, 
Such  as  prayed,  smiting  Agag  on  red 

Marston  Moor  : 
With  an  unwilling  humor,  half  choked 

by  the  drouth 


In  brown  hollows  about  the  inhospita- 
ble mouth  ; 
With  a  soul  full   of  poetry,  though   it 

has  qualms 
About  finding   a  happiness  out  of  the 

Psalms  ; 
Full     of   tenderness,    too,    though    it 

shrinks  in  the  dark, 
Hamadryad-like,    under    the     coarse, 

shaggy  bark  ; 
That  sees  visions,  knows  wrestlings  oi 

God  with  the  Will, 
And  has  its  own   Sinais  and  thunaeK 

ings  still." 

Here,  —  "  Forgive   me,   Apollo,"    I 

cried,  "while  I  pour 
My   heart   out   to   my  birthplace  :     O 

loved  more  and  mor\j 
Dear  Baystate,  from  whose  rocky  bosom 

thy  sons 
Should   suck  milk,  strong-will-giving, 

brave,  such  as  runs 
In  the  veins  of  old  Giaylock  — who  is 

it  that  dares 
Call   thee   pedler,   a  soul  wrapped   in 

bank-books  and  shares? 
Itisfalse!  She's  a  Poet !  I  see,  as  I  write, 
Along  the  far  railroad  the  steam-snake 

glide  white, 
The  cataract-throb  of  her  mill-hearts  I 

hear, 
The  swift  strokes  of  trip-hammers  wea- 
ry my  ear, 
Sledges  ring  upon  anvils,  through   logs 

the  saw  screams, 
Blocks   swing   to   their  place,   beetles 

drive  home  the  beams  :  — 
It  is  songs  such  as  these  that  she  croons 

to  the  din 
Of   her   fast-flying   shuttles,   year 'out 

and  year  in, 
While  from  earth's  farthest  corner  there 

comes  not  a  breeze 
But   wafts   her   the   buzz   of  her  gold- 
gleaning  bees  : 
What  though  those  horn  hands  have  as 

yet  found  small  time 
For  painting  and  sculpture  and  music 

and  rhyme  ? 
These  will  come  in  due  ordtr  ;  the  need 

that  presstd  sorest 
Was  to  vanquish  the  seasons,  the  ocean, 

the  forest, 


A    FABLE  FOR   CRITICS. 


157 


To  b.idle   and  harness  the  rivers,  the 

steam, 
Making  that  whir]  her  mill-wheels,  this 

tug  in  her  team, 
To  vassalize   old   tyrant   Winter,   and 

make 
Him  delve  surlily  for  her  on  river  and 

lake;—  ,     , 

When  this  New  World  was  parted,  she 

strove  not  to  shirk 
Her  lot  in  the  heirdom,  the  tough,  si- 
lent Work, 
The   hero-share   ever,  from    Herakles 

down 
To  Odin,  the  Earth's  iron  sceptre  and 

crown  : 
Yes,  thou  dear,  noble  Mother  !  if  ever 

men's  praise 
Could  be  claimed  for  creating  heroical 

lays, 
Thou  hast  won  it ;  if  ever  the  laurel 

divine 
Crowned  the  Maker  and  Builder,  that 

glory  is  thine  ! 
Thy  songs  are  right  epic,  they  tell  how 

this  rude 
Rock-rib  of  our  earth  here  was  tamed 

and  subdued  ; 
Thou  hast  written  them   plain  on  the 

face  of  the  planet 
In  brave,  deathless  letters  of  iron  and 

granite  ; 
Thou  hast  printed   them   deep  for  all 

time  ;  they  are  set 
From  the  same  runic   type-fount  and 

alphabet 
With  thy  stout  Berkshire  hills  and  the 

arms  of  thy  Bav,  — 
They  are   staves   from   the   burly   old 

Mayflower  lav. 
If  the   drones  of  the   Old   World,  in 

querulous  ease, 
Ask  thy   Art   and   thy   Letters,   point 

proudly  to  these, 
Or,  if  they  deny  these  are  Letters  and 

Art,  . 

Toil  on  with  the  same  old  invincible 

heart ; 
Thou  art  rearing  the  pedestal  broad- 
based  and  grand 
Whereon  the  fair  shapes  of  the  Artist 

shall  stand, 
And  creating,  through laborsundaunted 
and  long, 


The  theme  for  all  Sculpture  and  Paint- 
ing and  Song  ! 

"  But  my  good  mother  Baystate  wants 

no  praise  of  mine, 
She  learned  from  her  mother  a  precept 

divine 
About  something  that  butters  no  pars- 
nips, her  forte 
In  another  direction  lies,  work  is  her 

sport 
(Though  she  '11  courtesy  and  set  her  cap 

straight,  that  she  will, 
If  you  talk  about  Plymouth   and  red 

Bunker's  hill). 
Dear,  notable  goodwife  !  by  this  time 

of  night, 
Her  hearth  is  swept  clean,  and  her  fire 

burning  bright, 
And  she  sits  in  a  chair  (of  home  plan 

and  make)  rocking, 
Musing   much,  all   the  while,    as    she 

darns  on  a  stocking, 
Whether  turkeys  will  come  pretty  high 

next  Thanksgiving, 
Whether   flour  '11  be    so  dear,  for,    as 

sure  as  she  's  living, 
She  will  use  rye-and-injun  then,  whether 

the  pig 
By  this  time  ain't  got  pretty  tolerable 

big, 
And  whether  to  sell  it  outright  will  be 

best, 
Or  to  smoke  hams  and   shoulders  and 

salt  down  the  rest,  — 
At    this    minute,  she'd   swop  all   my 

verses,  ah,  cruel  ! 
For  the  last  patent  stove  that  is  saving 

of  fuel  ; 
So  I  '11  just  let  Apollo  go  on,  for  his 

phiz 
Shows  I  've  kept  him  awaiting  too  long 

as  it  is." 

"  If  our  friend,  there,  who  seems  a 
reporter,  is  done 

With  his  burst  of  emotion,  why,  /  will 
go  on," 

Said  Apollo  :  some  smiled,  and,  indeed, 
I  must  own 

There  was  something  sarcastic,  per- 
haps, in  his  tone  ;  — 

"  There  's  Holmes,  who  is  matchless 
among  you  for  wit ; 


158 


A    FABLE  FOR   CRITICS. 


A  Leyden-jar  always  full-charged,  from 

which  flit 
The  electrical  tingles  of  hit  after  hit ; 
In  long  poems  't  is  painful  sometimes, 

and  invites 
A  thought  ofthe  way  the  newTelegraph 

writes, 
Which   pricks    down    its  little    sharp 

sentences  spitefully 
As  if  you  got  more  than  you  'd   title  to 

rightfully, 
And  you  find  yourself  hoping  its  wild 

father  Lightning 
Would  flame  in  for  a  second  and  give 

you  a  fright'ning. 
He  has  perfect  sway  of  what  /  call  a 

sham  metre, 
But  many  admire  it,  the  English   pen- 
tameter, 
And   Campbell,   I    think,   wrote   most 

commonly  worse, 
With  less  nerve,  swing,   and  fire  in  the 

same  kind  of  verse, 
Nor  e'er  achieved  aught  in  't  so  worthy 

of  praise 
As  the  tribute  of  Holmes  to  the  grand 

Marseillaise. 
You  went  crazy  last  year  over  Bulwer's 

New  Timon  ;  — 
Why,  if  B.,  to  the  day  of  his  dying, 

should  rhyme  on, 
Heaping  verses  on  verses  and  tomes 

upon  tomes, 
He   could  ne'er  reach   the  best  point 

and  vigor  of  Holmes. 
His  are  just   the   fine   hands,  too,    to 

weave  you  a  lyric 
Full  of  fancy,   fun,   feeling,   or  spiced 

with  satyric 
In  a  measure  so   kindly,  you   doubt   if 

the  toes 
That  are  trodden  upon  are  yoar  own  or 
your  foes'. 

"There  is  Lowell,  who's  striving 
Parnassus  to  climb 

With  a  whole  bale  of  isms  tied  together 
with  rhyme, 

He  might  get  on  alone,  spite  of  bram- 
bles and  boulders, 

But  he  can't  with  that  bundle  he  has 
on  his  shoulders, 

The  top  of  the  hill  he  will  ne'er  come 
nigh  reaching 


Till   he   learns   the    distinction    'twixt 

singing  and  preaching  ; 
His  lyre  has  some  chords  that  would 

ring  pretty  well, 
But  he  'd  rather  by  half  make  a  drum 

of  the  shell, 
And  rattle  away  till  he  's  old  as  Me- 

thusalem, 
At  the  head  of  a  march  to  the  last  new 

Jerusalem. 

"There  goes  Halleck,  whose  Fan- 
ny 's  a  pseudo  Don  Juan, 

With  the  wickedness  out  that  gave  salt 
to  the  true  one, 

He  's  a  wit,  though,  I  hear,  ofthe  very 
first  order, 

And  once  made  a  pun  on  the  words 
soft  Recorder ; 

More  than  this,  he  's  a  very  great  poet, 
I  'm  told, 

And  has  had  his  works  published  in 
crimson  and  gold, 

With  something  they  call  'Illustra- 
tions,' to  wit, 

Like  those  with  which  Chapman  ob- 
scured Holy  Writ,* 

Which  are  said  to  illustrate,  because, 
as  I  view  it, 

Like  lucus  a  twn,  they  precisely  don't 
do  it; 

Let  a  man  who  can  write  what  himself 
understands 

Keep  clear,  if  he  can,  of  designing 
men's  hands, 

Who  bury  the  sense,  if  there's  any 
worth  having, 

And  then  very  honestly  call  it  engrav- 
ing. 

But,  to  quit  badinage,  which  there 
is  n't  much  wit  in, 

Halleck  's  better,  I  doubt  not,  than  all 
he  has  written  ; 

In  his  verse  a  clear  glimpse  you  will 
frequently  find, 

If  not  of  a  great,  of  a  fortunate  mind, 

Which  contrives  to  be  true  to  its  natural 
loves 

In  a  world  of  back-offices,  ledgers,  and 
stoves. 

When  his  heart  breaks  away  from  the 
brokers  and  banks, 

*  (Cuts  rightly  called  wooden,  as  all  must  ad- 
mit.) 


A    FABLE  FOR   CRITICS. 


•50 


And  kneels  in  its  own  private  shrine  to 
give  thanks, 

There  's  a  genial  manliness  in  him  that 
earns 

Our  sincerest  respect  (read,  for  in- 
stance, his  "  Burns"), 

And  we  can't  but  regret  (seek  excuse 
where  we  may) 

That  so  much  of  a  man  has  been  ped- 
dled away. 

"  But  what 's  that  ?  a  mass-meeting? 
No,  there  come  in  lots 

The  American  Disraelis,  Bulwers,  and 
Scotts, 

And  in  short  the  American  everything- 
elses. 

Each  charging  the  others  with  envies 
and  jealousies  ;  — 

By  the  way,  't  is  a  fact  that  displays 
what  profusions 

Of  all  kinds  of  greatness  bless  free  in- 
stitutions, 

That  while  the  Old  World  has  pro- 
duced barely  eight 

Of  such  poets  as  all  men  agree  to  call 
great, 

And  of  other  great  characters  hardly  a 
score 

(One  might  safely  say  less  than  that 
rather  than  more), 

With  you  every  year  a  whole  crop  is 
begotten, 

They  're  as  much  of  a  staple  as  corn  is, 
or  cotton  ; 

Why,  there  's  scarcely  a  huddle  of  log- 
huts  and  shanties 

That  has  not  brought  forth  its  own 
Miltons  and  Dantes  ; 

I  myself  know  ten  Byrons,  one  Cole- 
ridge, three  Shelleys, 

Two  Raphaels,  six  Titians,  (I  think) 
one  Apelles, 

Leonardos  and  Rubenses  plenty  as 
lichens, 

One  (but  that  one  is  plenty)  American 
Dickens, 

A  whole  flock  of  Lambs,  any  number 
of  Tennysons,  — 

In  short,  if  a  man  has  the  luck  to  have 
any  sons. 

He  may  feel  pretty  certain  that  one  out 
of  twain 


Will  be  some  very  great  person  over 
again. 

There  is  one  inconvenience  in 'all  this 
which  lies 

In  the  fact  that  by  contrast  we  estimate 
size,* 

And,  where  there  are  none  except  Ti- 
tans, great  stature 

Is  only  a  simple  proceeding  of  nature. 

What  puff  the  strained  sails  of  your 
praise  shall  you  furl  at,  if 

The  calmest  degree  that  you  know  is 
superlative  ? 

At  Rome,  all  whom  Charon  took  into 
his  wherry  must, 

As  a  matter  of  course,  be  well  issiunued 
and  errhnitsed, 

A  Greek,  too,  could  feel,  while  in  that 
famous  boat  he  tost, 

That  his  friends  would  take  care  he 
was  icTTosed  and  ujTarosed, 

And  formerly  we,  as  through  grave- 
yards we  past, 

Thought  the  world  went  from  bad  to 
worst  fearfully  fast ; 

Let  us  glance  for  a  moment,  't  is  well 
worth  the  pains, 

And  note  what  an  average  graveyard 
contains  ; 

There  lie  levellers  levelled,  duns  done 
up  themselves, 

There  are  booksellers  finally  laid  on 
their  shelves, 

Horizontally  there  lie  upright  politi- 
cians, 

Dose-a-dose  with  their  patients  sleep 
faultless  physicians, 

There  are  slave-drivers  quietly  whipped 
underground, 

There  bookbinders,  done  up  in  boards, 
are  fast  bound, 

There  card-players  wait  till  the  last 
trump  be  played, 

There  all  the  choice  spirits  get  finally 
laid, 

There  the  babe  that  's  unborn  is  sup- 
plied with  a  berth, 

*  That  is  in  most  cases  we  do,  but  not  all 
Past  a  doubt,  there  are  men  who  are  in- 
nately small, 
Such  as  Blank,  who,  without  being  'inin- 

ished  a  tittle, 
Might  stand  for  a  type  of  the  Absolute 
Little. 


«6o 


A   FABLE  FOR   CRITICS. 


There  men  without  legs  get  their  six 
feet  of  earth, 

There  lawyers  repose,  each  wrapped  up 
in  his  case, 

There  seekers  of  office  are  sure  of  a 
place, 

There  defendant  and  plaintiff  get  equal- 
ly cast, 

There  shoemakers  quietly  stick  to  the 
last, 

There  brokers  at  length  become  silent 
as  stocks, 

There  stage-drivers  sleep  without  quit- 
ting their  box, 

And  so  forth  and  so  forth  and  so  forth 
and  so  on, 

With  this  kind  of  stuff  one  might  end- 
lessly go  on  ; 

To  come  to  the  point,  I  may  safely  as- 
sert you 

Will  find  in  each  yard  every  cardinal 
virtue ;  * 

Each  has  six  truest  patriots  :  four  dis- 
coverers of  ether, 

Who  never  had  thought  on't  nor  men- 
tioned it  either : 

Ten  poets,  the  greatest  who  ever  wrote 
rhyme  : 

Two  hundred  and  forty  first  men  of 
their  time  : 

One  person  whose  portrait  just  gave 
the  least  hint 

Its  original  had  a  most  horrible  squint : 

One  critic,  most  (what  do  they  call  it  ?) 
reflective, 

Who  never  had  used  the  phrase  ob-  or 
subjective : 

Forty  fathers  of  Freedom,  of  whom 
twenty  bred 

Their  sons  for  the  rice-swamps,  at  so 
much  a  head, 

And  their  daughters  for — faugh  !  thir- 
ty mothers  of  Gracchi : 

Non-resistants  who  gave  many  a  spirit- 
ual black-eye  : 

Eight  true  friends  of  their  kind,  one  of 
whom  was  a  jailer  : 

Four  captains  almost  as  astounding  as 
Taylor : 


'  (And  at  this  just    conclusion    will    surely 
arrive. 
That  the  goodness  of  earth  is  more  dead 
than  alive. ) 


Two  dozen  of  Italy's  exiles  who  shoot 

us  his 
Kaisership     daily,   stern    pen-and-ink 

Brutuses, 
Who,    in   Yankee    back-parlors,   witb 

crucified  smile,* 
Mount  serenely  their  country's  funereal 

pile  : 
Ninety-nine  Irish  heroes,  ferocious  re- 

bellers 
'Gainst  the  Saxon  in  cis-marine  garrets 

and  cellars, 
Who  shake  their  dread  fists   o'er  the 

sea  and  all  that,  — 
As  long  as  a  copper  drops  into  the  hat : 
Nine    hundred    Teutonic  republicans 

stark 
From  Vaterland's  battles  just   won  — 

in  the  Park, 
Who  the  happy  profession  of  martyr- 
dom take 
Whenever  it  gives  them  a  chance  at  a 

steak  : 
Sixty-two  second  Washingtons  :  two  or 

three  Jacksons : 
And   so  many  everythings-else  that  it 

racks  one's 
Poor  memory  too  much  to  continue  thft 

list, 
Especially  now  they  no  longer  exist ;  — 
1    would   merely  observe  that  you  '  ire 

taken  to  giving 
The  puffs  that  belong  to  the  dead  to  tile 

living. 
And  that  somehow  your  trump-of-C(.n- 

temporary-doom's  tones 
Is  tuned    after  old    dedications    and 

tombstones."  — 

Here  the  critic  came  in  and  a  thistle 
presented  t  — 

From  a  frown  to  a  smile  the  god's  fea- 
tures relented, 

As  he  stared  at  his  envoy,  who,  swell- 
ing with  pride. 

To  the  god's  asking  look,  nothing 
daunted,  replied, — 

*  Not  forgetting  their  tea  and  their  toast, 

though,  the  while. 
f  Turn  back  now  to  page  —  goodness  only 

knows  what, 
And  take  a  fresh  hold  on  the  thread  ot 

my  plot. 


A   FABLE  FOR   CRITICS. 


161 


*"  You're  surprised,   I   suppose,  I  was 

absent  so  long, 
But  your  godship   respecting  the  lilies 

was  wrong  ; 
I  huvted  the  garden  from  one  end   to 

t'other, 
And  got  no  reward  but  vexation   and 

bother, 
Till,  tossed  out  with  weeds  in  a  corner 

to  wither, 
This  one  lily  I  found  and  made  haste 

to  bring  hither." 

"  Did  he  think  I  had  given  him  a 
book  to  review  ? 

I  ought  to  have  known  what  the  fellow 
would  do," 

Muttered  Phcebus  aside,  "  for  a  thistle 
will  pass 

Beyond  doubt  for  the  queen  of  all 
flowers  with  an  ass  ; 

He  has  chosen  in  just  the  same  way  as 
he  'd  choose 

His  specimens  out  of  the  books  he  re- 
views ; 

And  now,  as  this  offers  an  excellent 
text, 

I  '11  give  'em  some  brief  hints  on  criti- 
cism next." 

So,  musing  a  moment,  he  turned  to  the 
crowd, 

And,  clearing  his  voice,  spoke  as  fol- 
lows aloud  :  — 

-'  My  friends,   in   the   happier  days 

of  the  muse, 
We  were  luckily  free  from  such  things 

as  reviews  ; 
Then  naught  came  between  with   its 

fog  to  make  clearer 
1'he   heart  of  the  poet  to  that  of  his 

hearer ; 
Then  the  poet  brought  heaven   to  the 

people,  and  they 
Felt  that  they,  too,  were  poets  in  hear- 
ing his  lay  ; 
Then  the  poet  was  prophet,  the  past  in 

his  soul 
Precreated  the  future,   both  parts  of 

one  whole  ; 
Then  for  him   there   was   nothing  too 

great  or  too  small. 
For  one  natural  deity  sanctified  all ; 
ii 


Then  the  bard  owned  no  clipper  and 
meter  of  moods 

Save  the   spirit  of  silence   that  hovers 
and  broods 

O'er  the  seas  and  the   mountains,  the 
rivers  and  woods  ; 

He   asked  not  earth's  verdict,  forget- 
ting the  clods, 

His  soul  soared  and  sang  to  an   audi- 
ence of  gods ; 

'T  was  for  them  that  he  measured  the 
thought  and  the  line. 

And  shaped  for  their  vision  the  perfect 
design, 

With  as  glorious  a  foresight,  a  balance 
as  true, 

As  swung  out  the  worlds  in  the  infinite 
blue  ; 

Then  a  glory  and   greatness   invested 
man's  heart. 

The  universal,    which   now  stands  es- 
tranged and  apart, 

In   the   free   individual  moulded,   was 
Art ; 

Then  the  forms  of  the  Artist  seemed 
thrilled  with  desire 

For  something  as  yet  unattained,  ful- 
ler, higher, 

As  once  with  her  lips,  lifted  hands,  and 
eyes  listening, 

And   her   whole   upward   soul    in   her 
countenance  glistening, 

Eurydice    stood  —  like   a  beacon    un- 
fired. 

Which,  once  touched  with  flame,  will 
leap  heav'nward  inspired  — 

And  waited  with  answering  kindle  to 
mark 

The  first  gleam  of  Orpheus  that  pained 
the  red  Dark. 

Then    painting,     song,    sculpture    did 
more  than  relieve 

The  need  that  men  feel  to  create  and 
believe, 

And  as,  in  all  beauty,  who  listens  witu 
love 

Hears  these  words  oft  repeated  — '  be- 
yond and  above,' 

So  these  seemed  to  be  but  the  visible 
sign 

Of  the  grasp  of  the  soul  after  things 
more  divine ; 

They  were  ladders  the  Artist  erected  to 
climb 


l62 


A    FABLE  FOR   CRITICS. 


O'er  the  narrow  horizon  of  space  and 
of  time, 

And  we  see  there  the  footsteps  by 
which  men  had  gained 

To  the  one  rapturous  glimpse  of  the 
never-attained, 

As  shepherds  could  erst  sometimes 
trace  in  the  sod 

The  last  spurning  print  of  a  sky-cleav- 
ing god. 

"  But  now,  on  the  poet's  dis-priva- 
cied  moods 
With  do  this  and  do  that  the  pert  critic 

intrudes ; 
While  he  thinks  he  's  been  barely  ful- 
filling his  duty 
To  interpret  'twixt  men  and  their  own 

sense  of  beauty, 
And  has  striven,  while  others  sought 

honor  or  pelf, 
To  make  his  kind  happy  as  he  was  him- 
self, 
He  finds  he  's   been   guilty   of  horrid 

offences 
In  all  kinds  of  moods,  numbers,  gen- 
ders, and  tenses; 
He 's    been    ob  and   subjective,    what 

Kettle  calls  Pot, 
Precisely,  at  all  events,  what  he  ought 

not, 
You  have  done  this,  says  one  judge  ; 

done  that,  says  another  ; 
You  should  Jiave  done  this,  grumbles 

one  ;  that,  says  t'other  ; 
Never    mind    what    he    touches,    one 

shrieks  out  Taboo  ! 
And   while   he   is  wondering  what  he 

shall  do, 
Since  each  suggests  opposite  topics  for 

song, 
They  all  shout  together  you  're  right! 
and  you  're  wrong  1 

"Nature  fits  all   her  children  with 
something  to  do, 


He  who  would  write  and  can't  write, 

can  surely  review, 
Can  set  up  a  small  booth  as  critic  and 

sell  us  hij 
Petty  conceit  and  his  pettier  jealousies  ; 
Thus  a  lawyer's  apprentice,  just  out  of 

his  teens, 
Will  do  for  the  Jeffrey  of  six  magazines; 
Having  read  Johnson's  lives  of  the  po- 
ets half  through, 
There 's   nothing    on    earth   he 's   not 

competent  to ; 
He  reviews  with  as  much  nonchalance 

as  he  whistles,  — 
He  goes  through  a  book  and  just  picks 

out  the  thistles, 
It   matters   not   whether   he  blame  or 

commend, 
If  he  's  bad  as  a  foe,  he  's  far  worse  as 

a  friend  ; 
Let  an  author  but  write  what 's  above 

his  poor  scope. 
He  goes  to  work  gravely  and  twists  up 

a  rope, 
And,  inviting  the  world  to  see  punish- 
ment done, 
Hangs  himself  up  to  bleach  in  the  wind 

and  the  sun  ; 
'Tis  delightful    to  see,   when   a   man 

comes  along 
Who  has  anything  in  him  peculiar  and 

strong, 
Every  cockboat   that   swims   clear  its 

fierce  (pop)  gundeck  at  him, 
And  make  as  he   passes   its  ludicrous 
Peck  at  him—" 

Here  Miranda  came  up  and  began, 

"As  to  that  —  " 
Apollo  at  once  seized  his  gloves,  cane, 

and  hat, 
And,  seeing  the  place  getting  rapidly 

cleared, 
I,  too,  snatched  my  notes  and  forthwith 

disappeared. 


THE    BIGLOW    PAPERS. 


NOTICES    OF   AN    INDEPENDENT   PRESS. 


[  I  have  observed,  reader  (bene-  or 
male-volent,  as  it  may  happen),  that  it 
is  customary  to  append  to  the  second 
editions  of  books,  and  to  the  second 
works  of  authors,  short  sentences  com- 
mendatory of  the  first,  under  the  title  of 
Notices  of  the  Press.  These,  I  have 
been  given  to  understand,  are  procura- 
ble at  certain  established  rates,  pay- 
ment being  made  either  in  money  or 
advertising  patronage  by  the  publisher, 
or  by  an  adequate  outlay  of  servility  on 
the  part  of  the  author.  Considering 
these  things  with  myself,  and  also  that 
such  notices  are  neither  intended,  nor 
generally  believed,  to  convey  any  real 
opinions,  being  a  purely  ceremonial  ac- 
companiment of  literature,  and  resem- 
bling certificates  to  the  virtues  of  various 
niorbiferal  panaceas,  I  conceived  that 
it  would  be  not  only  more  economical 
to  prepare  a  sufficient  number  of  such 
myself,  but  also  more  immediately  sub- 
servient to  the  end  in  view  to  prefix 
them  to  this  our  primary  edition  rather 
than  await  the  contingency  of  a  second, 
when  they  would  seem  to  be  of  small 
utility.  To  delay  attaching  the  bobs 
until  the  second  attempt  at  flying  the 
kite  would  indicate  but  a  slender  ex- 
perience in  that  useful  art.  Neither 
has  it  escaped  my  notice,  nor  failed  to 
afford  me  matter  of  reflection,  that, 
when  a  circus  or  a  caravan  is  about  to 
visit  Jaalam,  the  initial  step  is  to  send 
forward  large  and  highly  ornamented 
bills  of  performance  to  be  hung  in  the 
bar-room  and  the  post-office.  These 
having  been  sufficiently  gazed  at,  and 
beginning  to  lose  their  attractiveness 
except  for  the  flies,  and,  truly,  the  boys 
also  (in  whom  I  find  it  impossible  to  re- 
press, even  during  school-hours,  certain 
oral   and   telegraphic   communications 


concerning  the   expected  show),  upon 
some  fine  morning  the  band  enters   in 
a   gayly  painted  wagon,  or  triumphal 
chariot,  and  with  noisy  advertisement, 
by  means  of  brass,  wood,    and  sheep- 
skin, makes  the   circuit  of  our  startled 
village  streets.     Then,  as  the  exciting 
sounds  draw  nearer  and  nearer,  do  I 
desiderate  those   eyes   of  Aristarchus, 
"  whose  looks  were  as  a  breeching  to  a 
boy."     Then  do  I  perceive,   with  vain 
regret  of  wasted  opportunities,    the  ad- 
vantage  of  a  pancratic  or  pantechnic 
education,  since  he  is  most  reverenced 
by  my  little  subjects  who  can  throw  the 
cleanest  summerset  or  walk  most  se- 
curely upon  the  revolving   cask.     The 
story  of  the  Pied  Piper  becomes  for  the 
first  time   credible   to   me  (albeit   con- 
firmed by  the  Hameliners   dating  their 
legal  instruments  from  the  period  of  his 
exit),  as   I  behold   how  those   strains, 
without  pretence  of  magical   potency, 
bewitch  the  pupillary  legs,  nor  leave  to 
the   pedagogic   an    entire   self-control. 
For  these  reasons,  lest  my   kingly  pre- 
rogative   should   suffer    diminution,  I 
prorogue  my  restless  commons,  whom 
I  also  follow  into  the  street,  chiefly  lest 
some  mischief  may  chance  befall  them. 
After  the  manner  of  such   a   band,   I 
send  forward  the  following  notices  of 
domestic  manufacture,  to  make  brazen 
proclamation,  not  unconscious  of  the  ad- 
vantage which  will  accrue,  if  our  little 
craft,   cymbula   sutilis,   shall  seem   to 
leave  port  with  a  clipping  breeze,  and 
to  carry,  in  nautical   phrase,  a  bone  in 
her    mouth.       Nevertheless,     I     have 
chosen,  as  being  more  equitable,  to  pre- 
pare   some    also   sufficiently   objurga- 
tory, that  readers   of  every   taste   may 
find   a   dish   to   their  palate.     I    have 
modelled  them  upon  actually   existing 


i66 


THE   BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


specimens,  preserved  in  my  own  cabi- 
net of  natural  cuiiosities.  One,  in  par- 
ticular, I  had  copied  with  tolerable  ex- 
actness from  a  notice  of  one  of  my  own 
discourses,  which,  from  its  superior 
tone  and  appearance  of  vast  experience, 
1  concluded  to  have  been  written  by  a 
man  at  least  three  hundred  years  of 
age,  though  I  recollected  no  existing 
instance  of  such  antediluvian  longevity. 
Nevertheless,  I  afterwards  discovered 
the  author  to  be  a  young  gentleman 
preparing  for  the  ministry  under  the 
direction  of  one  of  my  brethren  in  a 
neighboring  town,  and  whom  I  had 
once  instinctively  corrected  in  a  Latin 
quantity.  But  this  I  have  been  forced 
to  omit,  from  its  too  great  length.  —  H. 
W.] 


From,  the   Universal  Littery  Universe. 

Full  of  passages  which   rivet  the  attention 

of  the  reader Under   a  rustic   garb. 

sentiments  are  conveyed  which  should  be 
committed  to  the  memory  and  engraven  on 
the  heart  of  every  moral  and  social  being. 
....  We  consider  this  a  unique  perform- 
ance ....  We  hope  to  see  it  soon  in- 
troduced into  our    common  schools 

Mr.  Wilbur  has  performed  his  duties  as  ed- 
itor with  excellent  taste  and  judgment 

This  is  a  vein  which  we  hope  to  see  suc- 
cessfully prosecuted We  hail  the  ap- 
pearance of  this  work  as  a  long  stride  toward 
the  formation  of  a  purely  aboriginal,  indige- 
nous, native,  and  American  literature.  We 
rejoice  to  meet  with  an  author  national 
enough  to  break  away  from  the  slavish  def- 
erence, too   common  among  us,  to   English 

grammar  and  orthography Where  all 

is  so  good,  we  are  at  a  loss  how  to  make  ex- 
tracts  On  the  whole,  we  may  call  it  a 

volume  which  no  library,  pretending  to  en- 
tire completeness,  should  fail  to  place  upon 
its  shelves. 


comparison,  as  the  combined  heads  of  author 
and  editor.  The  work  is  wretchedly  got  up. 
....  We  should  like  to  know  how  much 
British  gold  was  pocketed  by  this  libeller  of 
our  country  and  her  purest  patriots. 


From    the    Higginbottomopolis    Snapping- 
turtle, 

A  collection  of  the  merest  balderdash  and 
doggerel  that  it  was  ever  our  bad  fortune  to 
lay  eyes  on.  The  author  is  a  vulgar  buffoon, 
and  the  editor  a  talkative,  tedious  old  fool. 
We  use  strong  language,  but  should  any  of 
our  readers  peruse  the  book,  (from  which 
calamity  Heaven  preserve  them !)  they  will 
find  reasons  for  it  thick  as  the  leaves  of  Val- 
Uuubrozer,  or,  to  use  a  still  more  expressive 


Front   the   Oldfogrumville  Mentor. 

We  have  not  had  time  to  do  more  than 
glance  through  this  handsomely  printed  vol- 
ume, but  the  name  of  its  respectable  editor, 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Wilbur,  of  Jaalam,  will  afford 
a  sufficient  guaranty  for  the  worth  of  its  con- 
tents  The   paper  is   white,  the   type 

clear,  and  the  volume  of  a  convenient  and 
attractive  size In  reading  this  ele- 
gantly executed  work,  it  has  seemed  to  us 
that  a  passage  or  two  might  have  been  re- 
trenched with  advantage,  and  that  the 
general  style  of  diction  was  susceptible  of  a 

higher  polish On  the  whole,  we  may 

safely  leave  the  ungrateful  task  of  criticism 
to  the  reader.  We  will  barely  suggest,  that 
in  volumes  intended,  as  this  is,  for  the  illus- 
tration of  a  provincial  dialect  and  turns  of 
expression,  a  dash  of  humor  or  satire  might 

be  thrown    in    with  advantage The 

work  is  admirably  got  up This  work 

will  form  an  appropriate  ornament  to  the 
centre-table.  It  is  beautifully  printed,  on 
paper  of  an  excellent  quality. 


From  the  Dckay  Bulwark. 

We  should  be  wanting  in  our  duty  as  tnc 
conductor  of  that  tremendous  engine,  a  pul" 
lic  press,  as  an  American,  and  as  a  man,  did 
we  allow  such  an  opportunity  as  is  presented 
to  us  by  "  The  Biglow  Papers  "  to  pass  by 
without  entering  our  earnest  protest  against 
such  attempts  (now,  alas  !  too  common)  at 
demoralizing  the  public  sentiment.  Under  a 
wretched  mask  of  stupid  drollery,  slavery, 
war,  the  social  glass,  and,  in  short,  all  the 
valuable  and  time-honored  institutions  justly 
dear  to  our  common  humanity  and  especially 
to  republicans,  are  made  the  butt  of  coarse 
and  senseless  ribaldry  by  this  low-minded 
scribbler.  It  is  time  that  the  respectable  and 
religious  portion  of  our  community  should  be 
aroused  to  the  alarming  inroads  of  foreign 
Jacobinism,  sansculottism,  and  infidelity.  It 
is  a  fearful  proof  of  the  wide-spread  nature 
of  this  contagion,  that  these  secret  stabs  at 
religion  and  virtue  are  given  from  under  the 
cloak  (credite,  posteri  !)  of  a  clergyman.  It 
is  a  mournful  spectacle  indeed  to  the  patriot 
and  Christian  to  see  liberality  and  new 
ideas  (falsely  so  called,  —  they  are  as  old  as 
Eden)  invading  the  sacred   precincts  of  the 

pulpit On  the  whole,    we    consider 

this  volume  as  one  of  the  first  shocking  re- 
sults which  we  predicted  would  spring  out  oi 
the  late  French  "  Revolution  "  ( !). 


NOTICES  OF  AN  INDEPENDENT  PRESS. 


167 


from  the  Bungtowtt  Copper  and  Compre- 
hensive Tocsin  (a  try-weakly  family 
Journal). 

Altogether  an  admirable  work Full 

of  humor,  boisterous,  but  delicate,— of  wit 
withering  and  scorching,  yet  combined  with 
a  pathos  cool  as  morninjr  dew, —of  satire 
ponderous  as  the  inace  of  Richard,  yet  keen 

as  the  scymitar  of  Saladin A  work 

full  of    "mountain-mirth,"    mischievous    as 

Puck,    and-   lightsome    as   Ariel We 

know  not  whether  to  admire  most  the  genial, 
fresh,  and  discursive  concinnity  of  the  author, 
or  his  playful  fancy,  weird  imagination,  and 
compass  of  style,  at  once  both  objective  and 

subjective We  might  indulge  in  some 

criticisms,  but,  were  the  author  other  than  he 
is,  he  would  be  a  different  being.  As  it  is, 
he  has  a  wonderful  pose,  which  flits  from 
flower  to  flower,  and  bears  the  reader  irre- 
sistibly along  on  its  eagle  pinions  (like  Gany- 
mede) to  the  "highest  heaven  of  invention." 
....  We  love  a  book  so  purely  objective. 
....  Many  of  his  pictures  of  natural  scenery 
have  an  extraordinary  subjective   clearness 

and  fidelity In  fine,  we   consider  this 

as  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  volumes  of 
this  or  any  age.  We  know  of  no  English 
author  who  could  have  written  it.  It  is  a 
work  to  which  the  proud  genius  of  our  coun- 
try, standing  with  one  foot  on  the  Aroostook 
and  the  other  on  the  Rio  Grande,  and  hold- 
ing up  the  star-spangled  banner  amid  the 
wreck  of  matter  and  the  crush  of  worlds,  may 
point  with  bewildering  scorn  of  the   punier 

efforts  of  enslaved  Europe We  hope 

soon  to  encounter  our  author  among  those 
higher  walks  of  literature  in  which  he  is 
evidently  capable  of  achieving  enduring 
fame.  Already  we  should  be  inclined  to 
assign  him  a  high  position  in  the  bright 
galaxy  of  our  American  bards. 


From  the  Sallrivei  Pilot  and  Flag  of  Free- 
dom. 
A  volume  in  bad  grammar  and  worse  taste. 
....  While  the  pieces  here  collected  were 
confined  to  their  appropriate  sphere  in  the 
corners  of  obscure  newspapers,  we  considered 
thein  wholly  beneath  contempt,  but,  as  the 
author  has  chosen  to  come  forward  in  this 
public  manner,  he  must  expect  the  lash  he 
so  richly  merits Contemptible  slan- 
ders  Vilest  Billingsgate Has 

raked  all  the  gutters  of  our  language 

The  most  pure,  upright,  and  consistent 
politicians  not  safe  from  his  malignant  venom. 
....  General  Cushing  comes  in  for  a  share 

of  his  vile  calumnies The  Reverend 

Homer  Wilbur  is  a  disgrace  to  his  cloth 

From  the   U'orld-Harmonic-Aiolian-At- 
tachment. 

Speech  is  silver :   silence  is  golden.     No 
utterance  more  Orphic  than  this.      While, 


therefore,  as  highest  author,  we  reverence 
him  whose  works  continue  heroically  un- 
written, we  have  also  our  hopeful  word  tor 
those  who  with  pen  (from  wing  of  goose  loud- 
cackling,  or  seraph  God-commissioned)  re- 
cord the  thing  that  is  revealed Un- 
der mask  of  quaintest  irony,  we  detect  here 
the  deep,  storm-tost  (nigh  shipwracked)  soul, 
thunder-scarred,  semiarticulate,  but  ever 
climbing  hopefully  toward  the  peaceful  sum- 
mits of  an  Infinite  Sorrow Yes,  thou 

poor,  forlorn  HoseaT  with  Hebrew  fire-flain- 
mg  soul  in  thee,  for  thee  also  this  life  of  ours 
has  not  been  without  its  aspects  of  heaven- 
liest  pity  and  laughingest  mirth.  Conceiva- 
ble enough  I  Through  coarse  Thersites- 
cloak,  we  have  revelation  of  the  heart,  wild- 
glowing,  world-clasping,  that  is  in  him. 
Bravely  he  grapples  with  the  life-problem  as 
it  presents  itself  to  him,  uncombed,  shaggy, 
careless  o  the  "nicer  proprieties,"  inexpert 
of  "  elegant  diction,"  yet  with  voice  audible 
enough  to  whoso  hath  ears,  up  there  on  the 
gravelly  side-hills,  or  down  on  the  splashy, 
mdiarubber-like  salt-marshes  of  native  Jaa- 
lam.  To  this  soul  also  the  Necessity  of  Creat- 
ing somewhat  has  unveiled  its  awful  front. 
If  not  CEdipuses  and  Electras  and  Alcestises, 
then  in  God's  name  Birdofredum  Sawins ! 
These  also  shall  get  born  into  the  world,  and 
filch  (if  so  need)  a  Zingali  subsistence  therein, 
these  lank,  omnivorous  Yankees  of  his.  He 
shall  paint  the  Seen,  since  the  Unseen  will 
not  sit  to  him.  Yet  in  him  also  are  Nibelun- 
gen-lays,  and  Iliads,  and  Ulysses-wanderings, 
and  Divine  Comedies,  —  if  only  once  he  could 
come  at  them  I  Therein  lies  much,  nay  all ; 
for  what  truly  is  this  which  we  name  All, 
but  that  which  we  do  not  possess?  .... 
Glimpses  also  are  given  us  of  an  old  father 
Ezekiel,  not  without  paternal  pride,  as  is  the 
wont  of  such.  A  brown,  parchment-hided 
old  man  of  the  geoponic  or  bucolic  species, 
gray-eyed,  we  fancy,  queued  perhaps,  with 
much  weather-cunning  and  plentiful  Septem- 
ber-gale memories,  bidding  fair  in  good  time 
to  become  the  Oldest  Inhabitant.  After  such 
hasty  apparition,  he  vanishes  and  is  seen  no 

more Of  "  Rev.   Homer   Wilbur,  A. 

M.,  Pastor  of  the  First  Church  in  Jaalam," 
we  have  small  care  to  speak  here.  Spare 
touch  in  him  of  his  Melesigenes  namesake, 
save,  haply,  the  —  blindness  I  A  tolerably 
caliginose,  nephe-legeretous  elderly  gentle- 
man, with  infinite  faculty  of  sermonizing, 
muscularized  by  long  practice,  and  excellent 
digestive  apparatus,  and,  for  the  rest,  well- 
meaning  enough,  and  with  small  private  il- 
luminations (somewhat  tallowy,  it  is  to  be 
feared)  of  his  own.  To  him,  there,  "  Pastor 
of  the  First  Church  in  Jaalam,"  our  Hosea 
presents  himself  as  a  quite  inexplicable 
Sphinx-riddle.  A  rich  poverty  of  Latin  and 
Greek, —  so  far  is  clear  enough,  even  to 
eyes  peering  myopic  through  horn-Iensed 
editorial  spectacles, —but  naught  farther) 
O  purblind,  well-meaning,  altogether  fuscous 


i68 


THE   B I  GLOW  PAPERS. 


Melcsigenes-Wilbur,  there  are  things  in  him 
incommunicable  by  stroke  of  birch!  Did  it 
ever  enter  that  old  bewildered  head  of  thine 
that  there  was  the  Possibility  of  the  Infinite 
in  him?  To  thee,  quite  wingless  (and  even 
featherless)  biped,  has  not  so  much  even  as 
a  dream  of  wings  ever  come?  "Talented 
young  parishioner  "  ?  Among  the  Arts  where- 
of thou  art  Afqgister,  does  that  of  seeing  hap- 
pen to  be  one?  Unhappy  Artium  Magister  I 
Somehow  a  Nemean  lion,  fulvous,  torrid- 
eyed,  dry-nursed  in  brf>ad-howling  sand- 
wildernesses  of  asufficiently  rare  spirit-Libya 
(it  may  be  supposed)  has  got  whelped  among 
the  sheep.  Already  he  stands  wild-glaring, 
with  feet  clutching  the  ground  as  with  oak- 
roots,  gathering  for  a  Remus-spring  over 
the  walls  of  thy  little  fold.  In  Heaven's 
name,  go  not  near  him  with  that  flybite  crook 
of  thine  !  In  good  time,  thou  painful  preach- 
er, thou  wilt  go  to  the  appointed  place  of 
departed  Artillery-Election  Sermons,  Right- 
Hands  of  Fellowship,  and  Results  of  Coun- 
cils, gathered  to  thy  spiritual  fathers  with 
much  Latin  of  the  Epitaphial  sort  ;  thou, 
too,  shalt  have  thy  reward  ;  but  on  him  che 
If  umenides  have  looked,  not  Xantippes  of 
the  pit,  snake-tressed,  finger-threatening,  but 
radiantly  calm  as  on  antique  gems  ;  for  him 
paws  impatient  the  winged  courser  of  the 
gods,  champing  unwelcome  bit ;  him  the 
starry  deeps,  the  empyrean  glooms,  and  far- 
flashing  splendors  await. 


From  the  Onion  Grove  Phcenix. 

A  talented  young  townsman  of  ours,  re- 
cently returned  from  a  Continental  tour,  and 
who  is  already  favorably  known  to  our  read- 
ers by  his  sprightly  letters  from  abroad 
which  have  graced  our  a  -lumns,  called  at  our 
office  yesterday.  We  learn  from  him,  that, 
having  enjoyed  the  distinguished  privilege, 
while  in  Germany,  of  an  introduction  to  the 
celebrated  Von  Humbug,  he  took  the  oppor- 
tunity to  present  that  eminent  man  with  a 
copy  of  the  "  Biglow  Papers."  The  next 
morning  he  received  the  following  note, 
which  he  has  kindly  furnished  us  for  publica- 
tion. We  prefer  to  print  it  verbatim,  know- 
ing that  our  readers  will  readily  forgive  the 
few  errors  into  which  the  illustrious  writer 
has  fallen,  through  ignorance  of  our  lan- 
guage. 

"High-Worthy  Mister! 
"  I  shall  also  now  especially  happy  starve, 
because  I  have  more  or  less  a  work  of  one 
those  aboriginal  Red-Men  seen  in  which 
have  I  so  deaf  an  interesi  ever  taken  full- 
worthy  on  the  self  shelf  with  our  Goltschcd 
to  be  upset. 

"  Pardon  my  in  the  English -speech  un- 
practice  I 

"VON    HUMBUG. 

He  also  sent  with  the  above  note  a  copy  of 
his  famous  work  ou  "  Cosmetics, '  to  be  pre- 


sented to  Mr.  Riglow  ;  but  this  was  taken 
from  our  friend  by  the  English  custom-house 
officers,  probably  through  a  petty  national 
spite.  No  doubt,  it  has  by  this  time  found 
its  way  into  the  British  Museum.  We  trust 
this  outrage  will  be  exposed  in  all  our  Ameri- 
can papers.  We  shall  do  our  best  to  bring 
it  to  the  notice  o*  the  State  Department. 
Our  numerous  readers  will  share  in  the  pleas- 
ure we  experience  at  seeing  our  young  and 
vigorous  national  literature  thus  encourag- 
ingly patted  on  the  head  by  this  venerable 
and  world-renowned  German.  We  love  to 
see  these  reciprocations  of  good-feeling  be- 
tween the  different  branches  of  the  great 
Anglo-Saxon  race. 

[The  following  genuine  "notice" 
having  met  my  eye,  I  gladly  insert  a 
portion  of  it  here,  the  more  especially 
as  it  contains  one  of  Mr.  Biglow *s 
poems  not  elsewhere  printed.  —  H.  W.] 


Front    the  jfaalam   Independent  Blunder- 
buss. 

....  But,  while  we  lament  to  see  our  young 
townsman  thus  mingling  in  the  heated  con- 
tests of  party  politics,  we  think  we  detect  in 
him  the  presence  of  talents  which,  if  prop- 
erly directed,  might  give  an  innocent  pleas- 
ure to  many.  As  a  proof  that  he  is  compe- 
tent to  the  production  of  other  kinds  of 
poetry,  we  copy  for  our  readers  a  short  frag- 
ment of  a  pastoral  by  him,  the  manuscript 
of  which  was  loaned  us  by  a  friend.  The 
title  of  it  is  '*  The  Courtin'." 

ZEKLE  crep*  up,  quite  unbeknown, 

An'  peeked  in  thru  the  winder. 
An'  there  sot  Huldy  all  alone, 

*ith  no  one  nigh  to  header. 

Agin'  the  chimbly  crooknecks  hung, 

An'  in  amongst  'em  rusted 
The  ole  queen  s-arm  thet  gran'ther  Young 

Fetched  back  frum  Concord  busted. 

The  wannut  logs  shot  sparkles  out 
Towards  the  pootiest,  bless  her  I 

An'  leetle  fires  danced  all  about 
The  chiny  on  the  dresser. 

The  very  room,  coz  she  wuz  in, 
Looked  warm  frum  floor  to  ceilin', 

An*  she  looked  full  ez  rosy  agin 
Ez  th  apples  she  wuz  peehn*. 

She  heerd  a  foot  an*  knowed  it,  tu, 

Araspin'  on  the  scraper,  — 
All  ways  to  once  her  feelins  flew 

Like  sparks  in  bumt-up  paper. 

He  kin'  o  l'itered  on  the  mat. 

Some  doubtfle  o'  the  seekle  ; 
His  heart  kep'  goin'  pitypat, 

But  hern  went  pity  Zekle. 


NOTICES   OF  AN  INDEPENDENT  PRESS. 


169 


An'  yet  she  gin  her  cheer  a  jerk 
Y.z.  though  she  wished  him  furrier 

An'  on  her  apples  kep'  to  work 
Hz  ef  a  wager  spurred  her. 

"  You  want  to  see  my  Pa,  I  spose?" 
'■  Wal,  no  ;   I  come  designin'  —  " 

"To  see  my  Mat    She  's  sprinklin'  clo'es 
Agin  to-morrow's  i'nin'." 

He  stood  a  spell  on  one  foot  fust 

Then  stood  a  spell  on  tother, 
An'  on  which  one  he  felt  the  wust 

He  could  n't  ha'  told  ye,  nuther. 


Sez  he,  "  I  'd  better  call  agin  "  ; 

Sez  she,  "  Think  likely,  Mister"  ; 
The  last  word  pricked  him  like  a  pin, 

An'  —  wal,  he  up  and  kist  her. 

When  Ma  bimeby  upon  'em  slips, 

Huldy  sot  pale  ez  ashes, 
All  kind  o'  smily  round  the  lips 

An'  teary  round  the  lashes. 

Her  blood  riz  quick,  though,  like  the  tide 

Down  to  the  Bay  o'  Fundy, 
An'  all  I  know  is  they  wuz  cried 

In  meetin',  come  nex  Sunday. 


Satis  multis  sese  emptores  futuros 
libri  professis,  Georgius  Nichols,  Can- 
tabrigiensis,  opusemittet  de  parte  gravi 
sed  adhuc  neglecta  historian  naturalis, 
cum  titulo  sequenti,  videlicet : 

Conatus  ad  Delineationcm  natnra- 
lem  nonnihil  perfectiorem  Scarabeei 
Bombilatoris,  vulgo  dicti  Humbug,  ab 
Homero  Wilbur,  Artium  Magistro, 
Societatis  historico-naturalis  Jaalamen- 
sis  Preside  (Secretario,  Socioque 
(eheu  !)  singulo),  mtiltarumque  aliarum 
Societatum  eruditarum  (sive  inerudita- 
rum)  tamdomesticarum  quam  transma- 
rinarum  Socio  —  forsitan  future 

t      PROEMIUM. 

Lectori  Benevolo  S. 

Toga  scholastica  nonduni  deposita, 
quum  systemata  varia  entom  jlogica,  a 
viris  ejusscientia;  cultoribusstudiosissi- 
mis  summa  diligentia  sedificata,  penitus 
indagassem,  non  fuit  quin  luctuose 
omnibus  in  iis,  quamvis  aliter  laude 
dignissimis,  hiatum  maijni  momenti 
perciperem.  Tunc,  nescio  quo  motu 
superiore  impulsus,  aut  quacaptus  dul- 
cedine  operis,  ad  eum  implendum  (Cur- 
tius  alter)  me  solemniter  devovi.  Nee 
ab  isto  labore,  o'aiju.oi'uof  imposito,  ab- 
stinui antequam  tractatulum  sufficienter 
inconcinnum  lingua  vernacula  perfece- 
ram.  Inde,  jtiveniliter  tumefactus,  et 
barathro  ineptiae  tu»'  /3i0Aio7ru>Au>>'  (nec- 
non  "  Publici  Legentis  "  )  nusquam  ex- 
plorato,  mecomposuissequod  quasi  pla- 
centas praefervidas  (ut  sic  dicam)  homi- 
nes ingurgitarent  credidi.     Sed,  quum 


huic  et  alio  bibliopole  MSS.  mea  sub- 
misissem  et  nihil  solidius  responsione 
valde  negativa  in  Mussum  mjiim  re- 
tulissem,  horror  ingens  atque  misericor- 
dia,  ob  crassitudinem  Lambertianam  in 
cerebris  homunculorum  istius  muneris 
ccelesti  quadam  ira  infixam,  me  inva- 
sere.  Extemplo  mei  solitts  impensis 
librum  edere  decrevi,  nihil  omnino 
dubitans  quin  "  Mundus  Scientificus  " 
(ut  aiunt)  crumenam  meam  ampliterre- 
pleret.  Nullam,  attamen,  ex  agro  illo 
meo  parvulo  segetem  demessui,  prseter 
gaudium  vacuum  bene  de  Republica 
merendi.  Iste  panis  meus  pretiosus 
super  aquas  literarias  feculentas  pra?- 
fidenter  jactus,  quasi  Harpyiarum  qua- 
rundam  (scilicet  bibliopolarum  istorum 
facinorosorum  supradictorum)  tactu 
rancidus,  intra  perpaucos  dies  mini 
domum  rediit.  Et,  quum  ipse  tairvicm 
ali  non  tolerarem,  primum  in  ntentem 
venit  pistori  (typographo  nempe)  ni- 
hilominus  solvendum  esse.  Animum 
non  idcirco  demisi,  imo  a?que  ac  pueri 
naviculas  suas  penes  se  linoretinent  (eo 
ut  e  recto  cursu  delapsas  ad  ripam  re- 
trahant),  sic  ego  Argo  meam  chartaceam 
fluctibus  laborantem  a  qussitu  velleris 
aurei,  ipse  potius  tonsus  pelleque  exu- 
tus,  mente  solida  revocavi.  Metapho- 
ram  ut  mutem,  boomarangam  meam  a 
scopo  aberantem  retraxi,  dum  majore 
vi,  occasione  ministrante,  adversus  For- 
tunam  intorquerem.  Ast  mihi,  talia  vol- 
venti,  et,  sicut  Saturnus  ille7rat5o3opo5, 
liberos  intellectus  mei  depascere  fidenti, 
casus  miserandus,  nee  antea  inauditus, 
supervenit.  Nam,  ut  ferunt  Scythas 
pietatis  causa  et  parsimonia?,  parentes 


170 


THE   B I  GLOW  PAPERS. 


tuos  mortuos  devorasse,  sic  filius  hie 
taeus  primogenitus,  Scythisipsis  minus 
mansuetus,  patrem  vivum  totum  e  cal- 
citrantem  exsorbere  enixus  est.  Nee 
tamen  hac  de  causa  sobolem  meam 
Esurientem  exheredavi.  Sed  famem 
istam  pro  valido  testimonio  virilitatis 
toborisque  potius  habui,  cibumque  ad 
earn  satiandam,  salva  paterna  mea 
came,  petii.  Et  quia  bilem  illam  sca- 
turientem  ad  ass  etiam  concoquendum 
idoneam  esse  estimabam,  unde  aes  ali- 
enum,  ut  minoris  pretii,  haberem,  cir- 
cumspexi.  Rebus  ita  se  habentibus, 
ab  avunculo  meo  Johanne  Doolittle, 
Armigero,  impetravi  ut  pecunias  neces- 
sarias  suppeditaret,  ne  opus  esset  mihi 
universitatem  relinquendi  antequam  ad 
gradum  primumnn  artibus  pervenissem. 
Tunc  ego,  salvum  facere  patronum 
meum  munificum  maxime  cupiens, 
omnes  libros  primae  editionis  open's 
mei  non  venditos  una  cum  privilegio  in 
omne  svum  ejusdem  imprimendi  et 
edendi  avunculo  meo  dicto  pigneravi. 
Ex  illo,  die,  atro  lapide  notando,  curae 
vociferantes  familiae  singulis  annis 
crescentis  eo  usque  insultabant  ut  nun- 
quam  tarn  carum  pigmis  e  vinculis  istis 
aheneis  solvere  possem. 

Avunculo  vero  nuper  mortuo,  quum 
inter  alios  consanguineos  testamenti 
ejus  lectionem  audiendi  causa  advenis- 
sem,  erectis  auribus  verba  talia  sequen- 
tia  accepi  :  —  "  Quoniam  persuasum 
habeo  meum  dilectum  nepotem  Home- 
rum,  longa  etintima  rerumangustarum 
domi  experientia,  aptissimum  esse  qui 
divitias  tueatur,  beneficenterque  ac 
prudenter  iis  divinis  creditis  utatur,  — 
ergo,  motus  hisce  cogitationibus,  exque 
amore  meo  in  ilium  magno,  do,  legoque 
nepoti  caro  meo  supranominalo  omnes 
singularesque  istas  possessiones  nee 
ponderabiles  nee  computabiles  meas 
quas  sequuntur,  scilicet :  quingentos 
libros  quos  mihi  pigneravit  dictus 
Homerus,  anno  lucis  1792,  cum  privi- 
legio edendi  et  repetendi  opus  istud 
'scientificum  '  (quod  dicunt)  suum,  si 
sic  elegerit.  Tamen  D.  O.  M.  precor 
oculos  Homeri  nepotis  mei  ita  aperiat 
eumque  moveat,  ut  libros  istos  in  biblio- 
theca  unius  e  plurimis  castellis  suis 
Hispaniensibus  tuto  abscondat." 


His  verbis  (vix  credibilibus)  auditis, 
cormeum  inpectoreexsultavit.  Deinde, 
quoniam  tractatus  Anglice  scriptus 
spem  auctoris  fefellerat,  quippe  quum 
studium  Historian  Naturaiis  in  Repub- 
lica  nostra  inter  factionis  strepitum 
languescat,  Latine  versum  ederestatui, 
et  eo  potius  quia  nescio  quomododisci- 
plina  academica  et  duo  diplomata  pro- 
ficiant,  nisi  quod  peritos  linguarum 
omnino  mortuarum  et  damnandarum, 
ut  dicebat  iste  itavovpyos  Gulielmus 
Cobbett   nos  faciant. 

Et  mihi  adhuc  superstes  est  tota  ilia 
editio  prima,  quam  quasi  crepitaculum 
per  quod  dentes  caninosdentibam  reti- 
neo.  

OPERIS  SPECIMEN. 

(Ad  exemplutn  Johannis  Physiophili  spe- 

citniiiis  Montzchologiee.) 

iz.  S.  B.     Militaris,    WILBUR.     Carnifex, 

JABLONSK.     Pro/amis.    DESFONT. 

[Male  hancce  speciem  Cyclopem  Fabri- 
cius  vocat,  ut  qui  singulo  oculo  ad  quod  sui 
interest  distinguitur.  Melius  vero  Isaacus 
Cutis  nullum  inter  S.  milit.  S.que  Belzebul 
(Fabric.  152)  discrimen  esse  defendit.] 

Habitat  civitat.  Americ.  austral. 

Aureis  lineis  splendidus  ;  plerumque  ta- 
men sordidus,  utpote  lanienas  valde  frequen- 
tans,  fcetore  sanguinis  allectus.  Amat  quo- 
que  insuper  septa  apricari,  neque  inde,  nisi 
maxima  conatione  detruditur.  Catididatiis 
ergo  populariter  vocatus.  Caput  cristam 
quasi  pennarum  ostendit.  Pro  cibo  vaccam 
publicam  callide  mulget ;  abdomen  enorme  ; 
facultas  suctus  haud  facile  estimanda.  Otio- 
sus,  fatuus ;  ferox  nihilominus,  semperque 
dimicare  paratus.     Tortuose  repit. 

Capite  siepe  maxima  cum  cura  dissecto, 
ne  illud  rudimentum  etiam  cerebri  commune 
omnibus  prope  insectis  detegere  poteram. 

Unam  de  hoc  S.  milit.  rem  singularem 
notavi ;  nam  S.  Guineens.  (Fabric.  143)  ser- 
vos facit,  et  idcirco  a  multis  summa  in  rever- 
entia  habitus,  quasi  scintillas  rationis  poene 
humanre  demonstrans. 

24.  S.  B.    Crilicus,   WILBUR.     Zoilus,    FA- 
BRIC.    Pygmaus,  CARLSEN. 

[Stultissime  Johannes  Stryx  cum  S.  puncta- 
te (Fabric.  64-109)  confundit.  Specimina 
quamplurima  scrutationi  microscopical  sub- 
jeci,  nunquam  tamen  unum  ulla  indicia 
puncti  cujusvis  prorsus  ostendentem  inveni.J 

Pr.-ecipue  formidolosus,  insectatusque,  in 
proxima  rima  anonyma  sese  abscondit,  we, 
tve,  creberrime  stridens.     Ineptus,  segnipes. 

Habitat  ubique  gentium  ;  in  sicco  ;  nidum 
suum  terebratione  indefessa  aedificans.  Ci- 
bus.     Libros     deposcit ;    siccos    praecipuc 


MELIB  (E  US-HIPPONAX. 


THE 

Big  I  ci  u)    papers, 

EDITED, 

WITH  AN   INTRODUCTION,    NOTES,   GLOSSARY,   AND 
COPIOUS   INDEX. 

BY 

HOMER    WILBUR,    A.  M., 

PASTOR    OF    THE     FIRST    CHURCH    IN    JAALAM,    AND   (PROSPECTIVE)    MEMBEI"   ,>* 
MANY    LITERARY,    LEARNED,    AND   SCIENTIFIC   SOCIETIES, 

{/or  which  see  page  173  ) 

The  ploughman's  whistle,  or  the  trivial  flute, 
Finds  more  respect  than  great  Apollo's  lute. 

Quarles's  Emblems,  B.  ii.  E.  8. 

Margaritas,  munde  porcine,  calcasti :  en,  siliquas  accipe. 

Jac.  Car.  Fil.  ad  P?<6.  leg.  §  I. 


NOTE   TO   TITLE-PAGE. 


It  will  not  have  escaped  the  atten- 
tive eye,  that  I  have,  on  the  title-page, 
omitted  those  honorary  appendages  to 
the  editorial  name  which  not  only  add 
greatly  to  the  value  of  every  book,  but 
whet  and  exacerbate  the  appetite  of 
the  reader.  For  not  only  does  he  sur- 
mise that  an  honorary  membership  of 
literary  and  scientific  societies  implies 
a  certain  amount  of  necessary  distinc- 
tion on  the  part  of  the  recipient  of 
such  decorations,  but  he  is  willing  to 
trust  himself  more  entirely  to  an  author 
who  writes  under  the  fearful  responsi- 
bility of  involving  the  reputation  of 
such  bodies  as  the  -S\  A  rchceol.  Dahon. 
or  the  Acad.  Lit.  et  Scient.  Kam- 
tschat.  I  cannot  but  think  that  the 
early  editions  of  Shakespeare  and  Mil- 
ton would  have  met  with  more  rapid 
and  general  acceptance,  but  for  the 
banenness  of  their  respective  title- 
pages;  and  I  believe,  that,  even  now, 
a  publisher  of  the  works  of  either  of 
those  justly  distinguished  men  would 
find  his  account  in  procuring  their  ad- 
mission to  the  membership  of  learned 
bodies  on  the  Continent,  —  a  proceed- 
ing no  whit  more  incongruous  than  the 
reversal  of  the  judgment  against  Soc- 
rates, when  he  was  already  more  than 
twenty  centuries  beyond  the  reach  of 
antidotes,  and  when  his  memory  had 
acquired  a  deserved  respectability.  I 
conceive  that  it  was  a  feeling  of  the 
importance  of  this  precaution  which 
induced  Mr.  Locke  to  style  himself 
"  Gent."  on  the  title-page  of  his  Essay, 
as  who  should  say  to  his  readers  that 
they  could  receive  his  metaphysics  on 
the  honor  of  a  gentleman. 

Nevertheless,  finding  that,  without 
descending  to  a  smaller  size  of  type 
than  would  have  bsen  compatible  with 


the  dignity  of  the  several  societies  to  h* 
named,  I  could  not  compress  my  in- 
tended list  within  the  limits  of  a  single 
page,  and  thinking,  moreover,  that  the 
act  would  carry  with  it  an  air  of  deco- 
rous modesty,  I  have  chosen  to  take 
the  reader  aside,  as  it  were,  into  my 
private  closet,  and  there  not  only  ex- 
hibit to  him  the  diplomas  which  I  al- 
ready possess,  but  also  to  furnish  him 
with  a  prophetic  vision  of  those  which 
I  may,  without  undue  presumption, 
hope  for,  as  not  beyond  the  reach  of 
human  ambition  and  attainment.  And 
I  am  the  rather  induced  to  this  from 
the  fact  that  my  name  has  been  unaC' 
countably  dropped  from  the  last  trien- 
nial catalogue  of  our  beloved  Alma 
Mater.  Whether  this  is  to  be  attrib- 
uted to  the  difficulty  of  Latinizing  any 
of  those  honorary  adjuncts  (with  a  com- 
plete list  of  which  I  took  care  to  fur- 
nish the  proper  persons  nearly  a  year 
beforehand),  or  whether  it  had  its  01  i 
gin  in  any  more  culpable  motives,  1 
forbear  to  consider  in  this  place,  th  : 
matter  being  in  course  of  painful  in- 
vestigation. But,  however  this  may  be, 
I  felt  the  omission  the  more  keenly,  as 
I  had,  in  expectation  of  the  new  cata- 
logue, enriched  the  library  of  the  Jaa- 
lam  Athenajum  with  the  old  one  then 
in  my  possession,  by  which  means  it 
has  come  about  that  my  children  will 
be  deprived  of  a  never-wearying  win- 
ter-evening's amusement  in  looking 
out  the  name  of  their  parent  in  that 
distinguished  roll.  Those  harmless  in- 
nocents had  at  least  committed  no ■ 

but  I  forbear,  having  intrusted  my  re- 
flections and  animadversions  on  this 
painful  topic  to  the  safe-keeping  of  my 
private  diary,  intended  for  posthumous 
publication.     I  state  this  fact  here,  i« 


NOTE    TO    TITLE-PAGE. 


173 


order  that  certain  nameless  individuals, 
who  are,  perhaps,  overmuch  congratu- 
lating themselves  upon  my  silence,  may 
know  that  a  rod  is  in  pickle  which  the 
vigorous  hand  of  a  justly  incensed  pos- 
terity will  apply  to  their  memories. 

The  careful  reader  will  note,  that,  in 
the  list  which  I  have  prepared,  I  have 
included  the  names  of  several   Cisat- 
lantic societies  to  which  a  place  is  not 
commonly  assigned  in   processions   of 
this  nature.     1    have   ventured   to   do 
this,  not  only  to  encourage  native  am- 
bition and  genius,  but  also  because  I 
have  never  been  able  to   perceive   in 
what  way  distance  (unless  we  suppose 
them  at  the  end  of  a  lever)  could  in- 
crease the  weight  of  learned   bodies. 
As  far  as  I  have  been  able  to   extend 
my  researches  among  such  stuffed  spec- 
imens as  occasionally  reach  America,  I 
have  discovered  no  generic  difference 
between  the   antipodal    Fogrum    Ja- 
ponicum  and  the  F.  A  mericamim  suf- 
ficiently common  in  our  own  immediate 
neighborhood.      Yet,  with  a  becoming 
deference   to  the   popular  belief   that 
distinctions  of  this  sort  are  enhanced 
in  value  by  every  additional   mile  they 
travel,  I  have  intermixed  the  names  of 
some  tolerably  distant  literary  and  oth- 
er associations  with  the  rest.     _ 

I  add  here,  also,  an  advertisement, 
which,  that  it  may  be  the  more  readily 
understood  by  those  persons  especially 
interested  therein,  I  have  written  in 
that  curtailed  and  otherwise  maltreated 
canine  Latin,  to  the  writing  and  read- 
ing of  which  they  are  accustomed. 

Omnib.    per    tot.    Orb.    Terrar. 
Catalog.  Academ.  Edd. 

Minim,  gent,  diplom.  ab  inclytiss. 
acad.  vest,  orans,  vir.  honorand.  opero- 


siss.,  at  sol.  ut  sciat.  quant,  glor.  nom. 
meum  (dipl.  fort,  concess.)  catal.  vest. 
temp,  futur.  after.,  ill.  subjec,  addit. 
omnib.  titul.  honorar.  qu.  adh.  non 
tant.  opt.  quam  probab.  put. 

***  L  itt.    Uncial,  distinx.  ut  Prees. 
S.  Hist.  Nat.  Jaal. 

H  OME  R  US       WIL  B  UR,      M  r. , 
Episc.   Jaalam,  S.  T.  D.    1850,  et  Yal. 
1849,  et  Neo-Caes.  et  Brun.  et  Guhelm. 
1S52,  et  Gul.  et  Mar.  et  Bowd.  et  Geor- 
giop.   et  Viridimont.   et  Colonib.  Nov. 
Ebor.  1853.  et  Amherst,  et  W'atervill.  et 
S.  Jarlath.  Hib.  et  S.  Mar.  et  S.  Joseph, 
et  S.  And.  Scot.  1854,  et  Nashvill.    et 
Dart,  et  Dickins.  et  Concord,  et  Wash, 
et  Columbian,  et   Chariest,   et  Jeff,  et 
Dubl.  et  Oxon.  et  Cantab,  et  Cat.  1855, 
P.   U.  N.  C.  H.  et  J.  U.  D.  Gott.  et 
Osnab.    et    Heidelb.     i860,    et   Acad. 
Bore  us.     Berolin.  Soc,  et  SS.  RR. 
Lugd.    Bat.    et    Patav.     et    Lond.    et 
Edinb.  et   Ins.   Feejee.  et  Null.  Terr, 
et  Pekin.  Soc.  Hon   et  S.  H.    S    et  S. 
P   A.  et  A.  A.  S.  et  S.  Humb.  Univ.  et 
S.  Omn.  Rer.  Quarund.  q.  Aliar.  Pro- 
mov    Passamaquod.   et    H.  P.  C.  et  I. 
O.  H.  et  A.  A.  4>.  et  1 1.  K.  P.  et  *.  B. 
K  etPeucin  et  Erosoph.et  Philadelph. 
et  Frat.   in    Unit,    et   2.  T.  et   S.    Ar- 
chsolog.  Athen.  et  Acad.  Scient.  et  Lit. 
Panorm.  et  SS.  R.  H.  Matrit.   et  Bee- 
loochist.  et  Caffrar.  et  Caribb.  et  M.  S. 
Reg   Paris  et   S.   Am.   Antiserv.   Soc. 
Hon.  et  P.  D.  Gott.  et  LL.  D.  1852,  et 
DC    L.   et  Mus    Doc.   Oxon.    i860, 
et  M.  M.  S.  S.  et  M.  D.  1854,  et  Med. 
Fac.  Univ.  Harv.   Soc.  et  S.   pro  Con- 
vers    Pollvwog.    Soc.   Hon.   et   Higgl. 
Piggl.  et  LL.  B.  1853,  et  S.  pro  Chris- 
tianiz.   Moschet.     Soc,   et    SS.    Ante- 
Diluv.  ubiq.  Gent.  Soc.  Hon.  et  Civit. 
Cleric.  Jaalam.  et  S.  pro  Diffus.  General 
Tenebr.  Secret.  Corr. 


INTRODUCTION, 


When,  more  than  three  years  ago, 
my  talented  young  parishioner,  Mr. 
Biglow,  came  to  me  and  submitted  to 
my  animadversions  the  first  of  his  po- 
ems which  he  intended  to  commit  to 
the  more  hazardous  trial  of  a  city  news- 
paper, it  never  so  much  as  entered  my 
imagination  to  conceive  that  his  pro- 
ductions would  ever  be  gathered  into  a 
fair  volume,  and  ushered  into  the  au- 
gust presence  of  the  reading  public  by 
myself.  So  little  are  we  short-sighted 
mortals  able  to  predict  the  event  !  I 
confess  that  there  is  to  me  a  quite  new 
satisfaction  in  being  associated  (though 
only  as  sleeping  partner)  in  a  book 
which  can  stand  by  itself  in  an  indepen- 
dent unity  on  the  shelves  of  libraries. 
For  there  is  always  this  drawback  from 
the  pleasure  of  printing  a  sermon,  that, 
whereas  the  queasy  stomach  of  this  gen- 
eration will  not  bear  a  discourse  long 
enough  to  make  a  separate  volume, 
those  religious  and  godly-minded  chil- 
dren (those  Samuels,  if  I  may  call  them 
so)  of  the  brain  must  at  first  lie  buried 
in  an  undistinguished  heap,  and  then 
get  such  resurrection  as  is  vouchsafed 
to  them,  mummy-wrapped  with  a  score 
of  others  in  a  cheap  binding,  with  no 
other  mark  of  distinction  than  the  word 
"  Miscellaneous''  printed  upon  the 
back.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  claim  any 
credit  for  the  quite  unexpected  popu- 
larity which  I  am  pleased  to  find  these 
bucolic  strains  have  attained  unto.  If 
I  know  myself,  I  am  measurably  free 
from  the  itch  of  vanity  ;  yet  I  may  be 
allowed  to  say  that  I  was  not  backward 
to  recognize  in  them  a  certain  wild, 
puckery,  acidulous  (sometimes  even 
verging  toward  that  point  which,  in  our 
rustic  phrase,  is  termed  shut-eye)  flavor, 
not  wholly   unpleasing,    nor  unwhole- 


some, to  palates  cloyed  with  th«  sugari- 
ness of  tamed  and  cultivated  fruit.  It 
may  be,  also,  that  some  touches  of  my 
own,  here  and  there,  may  have  led  to 
their  wider  acceptance,  albeit  solely 
from  my  larger  experience  of  literature 
and  authorship.* 

I  was,  at  first,  inclined  to  discourage 
Mr.  Biglow's  attempts,  as  knowing  that 
the  desire  to  poetize  is  one  of  the  dis- 
eases naturally  incident  to  adolescence, 
which,  if  the  fining  remedies  be  not  at 
once  and  with  a  bold  hand  applied,  may 
become  chronic,  and  render  one,  who 
might  else  have  become  in  due  time  an 
ornament  of  the  social  circle,  a  painful 
object  even  to  nearest  friends  and  rela- 
tives. But  thinking,  on  a  further  expe- 
rience, that  there  was  a  germ  of  prom- 
ise in  him  which  required  only  culture 
and  the  pulling  up  of  weeds  from  around 
it,  I  thought  it  best  to  set  before  him 
the  acknowledged  examples  of  English 
composition  in  verse,  and  leave  the  rest 
to  natural  emulation.  With  this  view, 
I  accordingly  lent  him  some  volumes 
of  Pope  and  Goldsmith,  to  the  assidu- 
ous study  of  which  he  promised  to  de- 
vote his  evenings.  Not  long  afterward, 
he  brought  me  some  verses  written 
upon  that  model,  a  specimen  of  which 
I  subjoin,  having  changed  some  phra- 
ses of  less  elegancy,  and  a  few  rhymes 
objectionable  to  the  cultivated  ear. 
The  poem  consisted  of  childish  reminis- 
cences, and  the  sketches  which  follow 


*  The  reader  curious  in  such  matters  may 
refer  {if  he  can  find  them)  to  "  A  Sermon 
preached  on  the  Anniversary  of  the  Dark 
Day,"  "  An  Artillery  Election  Sermon,"  "  A 
Discourse  on  the  Late  Eclipse,"  "  Dorcas,  a 
Funeral  Sermon  on  the  Death  of  Madam 
Submit  Tidd,  Relict  of  the  late  Experience 
Tidd,  Esq.."  &c,  &c. 


INTRODUCTION. 


•73 


will  not  seem  destitute  of  truth  to  those 
whose  fortunate  education  began  in  a 
country  village.  And,  first,  let  us  hang 
up  his  charcoal  portrait  of  the  school- 
dame. 

"  Propped  on  the  marsh,  a  dwelling  now,  I  see 
The  humble  school-house  of  my  A,  B.  C, 
Where  well-drilled  urchins,  each  behind  his 

tire, 
Waited  in  ranks  the  wished  command  to  fire, 
Then  all  together,  when  the  signal  came, 
Dicharged  their  a-b  abs  against  the  dame. 
Daughter  of  Danaus,  who  could  daily  pour 
In  treacherous  pipkins  her  Pierian  store, 
She,  'mid  the  volleyed  learning  firm  and  calm, 
Patted  the  furloughed  ferule  on  her  palm, 
And,  to  our  wonder,  could  divine  at  once 
Who  flashed  the  pan,  and  who  was  down- 
right dunce. 

"There  young  Devotion  learned  to  climb 

with  ease 
The  gnarly  limbs  of  Scripture  family-trees. 
And  he  was  most  commended  and  admired 
Who  soonest  to  the  topmost  twig  perspired  ; 
Each  name  was  called  as  many  various  ways 
As  pleased  the  reader's  ear  on  different  days, 
So  that  the  weather,  or  the  ferule's  stings, 
Colds  in  the  head,  or  fifty  other  things. 
Transformed  the  helpless  Hebrew  thrice  a 

week 
To  guttural  Pequot  or  resounding  Greek, 
The  vibrant  accent  skipping  here  and  there, 
Just  as  it  pleased  invention  or  despair  ; 
No  controversial  Hebraist  was  the  Dame  ; 
With  or  without  the  points  pleased  her  the 

same ; 
If  any  tyro  found  a  name  too  tough, 
And  looked  at    her,    pride    furnished  skill 

enough  ; 
She  nerved  her  larynx  for  the  desperate  thing, 
And  cleared  the  five-barred  syllables  at  a 

spring. 

"  Ah,  dear  old  times !  there  once  it  was  my 

hap, 
Perched  on  a  stool,  to  wear  the  long-eared 

cap ; 
From  books  degraded,  there  I  sat  at  ease, 
A  drone,  the  envy  of  compulsory  bees ; 
Rewards  of  merit,  too,  full  many  a  time, 
Each  with  its  woodcut  and  its  moral  rhyme, 
And  pierced  half-dollars  hung  on  ribbons  gay 
About  my  neck  — to  be  restored  next  day, 
I  carried  home,  rewards  as  shining  then 
As  those  which  deck  the  lifelong  pains  of 

men, 
More  solid  than  the  redemanded  praise 
With  which  the  world  beribbons  later  days. 

'■'  Ah.  dear  old  times !  how  brightly  ye  return  1 
How,  rubbed  afresh,  your  phosphor  traces 

burn  ! 
The  ramble  schoolward  through  dewspark- 

liug  meads 


The  willow-wands  turned  Cinderella  steeds  ; 
The  impromptu  pinbent  hook,  the  deep  re- 
morse 

0  'er  the  chance-captured  minnow's  inchlong 

corse  ; 
The  pockets,  plethoric  with  marbles  round, 
That  still  a  space  for  ball  and  pegtop  found, 
Nor  satiate  yet,  could  manage  to  confine 
Horsechestnuts,    flagroot,     and    the    kite's 

wound  twine, 
And,  like  the  prophet's  carpet  could  take  in, 
Enlarging  still,  the  popgun's  magazine  ; 
The  dinner  carried  in  the  small  tin  pail, 
Shared  with  the  dog,  whose  most  beseeching 

tail 
And  dripping  tongue  and  eager  ears  belied 
The  assumed  indifference  of  canine  pride  ; 
The  caper  homeward,  shortened  if  the  cart 
Of   Neighbor  Pomeroy,  trundling    from  the 

mart, 
O'ertook  me,  — then,  translated  to  the  seat 

1  praised  the  steed,  how  stanch  he  was  and 

fleet, 
While  the  bluff  farmer,  with  superior  grin. 
Explained   where  horses    should    be   thick, 

where  thin, 
And  warned  me  (joke  he  always  had  in  store) 
To  shun  a  beast  that  four  white  stockings 

wore. 
What  a  tine  natural  courtesy  was  his  I 
His  nod  was  pleasure,  and  his  full  bow  bliss  ; 
How  did  his  well-thumbed  hat,  with   ardor 

rapt, 
Its  decorous  curve  to  every  rank  adapt  1 
How  did  it  graduate  with  a  courtly  ease 
The  whole  long  scale  of  social  differences, 
Yet  so  gave  each  his  measure  running  o'er,  ^ 
None  thought  his  own  was  less,  his  neighbor's 

more  ; 
The  squire  was  flattered,   and   the  pauper 

knew 
Old  times  acknowledged  '  neath  the  thread- 
bare blue  \ 
Dropped  at  the  corner  of  the  embowered 

lane, 
Whistling  I  wade  the  knee-deep  leaves  again, 
While  eager  Argus,  who  has  missed  all  day 
The  sharer  of  his  condescending  play, 
Comes  leaping  onward  with  a  Dark  elate 
And  boisterous  tail  to  greet  me  at  the  gate  ; 
That  I  was  true  in  absence  to  our  love 
Let    the    thick    dog's-ears    in    my     primer 

prove." 

T  add  only  one  further  extract,  which 
will  possess  a  melancholy  interest  to  all 
such  as  have  endeavored  to  glean  the 
materials  of  revolutionary  history  from 
the  lips  of  aged  persons,  who  took  a 
part  in  the  actual  making  of  it,  and, 
finding  the  manufacture  profitable,  con- 
tinued the  supply  in  an  adequate  pro- 
portion to  the  demand. 

"  Old  Joe  is  gone,  who  saw  hot  Percy  goad 
His  slow  artillery  up  the  Concord  road. 


176 


THE   BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


A  tale  which  grew  in  wonder,  year  by  year, 
As,  every  time  he  told  it,  Joe  drew  near 
To  the  main  fight,  till,  faded  and  grown  gray, 
The  original  scene  to  bolder  tints  gave  way  ; 
Then  Joe  had  heard  the  foe's  scared  double- 
quick 
Beat  on    stove  drum  with  one  uncaptured 

stick, 
And,  ere  death  came  the  lengthening  tale  to 

lop, 
Himself  had  fired,  and  seen  a  red-coat  drop  ; 
Had  Joe  lived  long  enough,   that  scrambling 

fight 
Had  squared  more  nearly  with  his  sense  of 

right, 
And  vanquished  Percy,  to  complete  the  tale, 
Had  hammered  stone  for  life  in  Concord  jail." 

I  do  not  know  that  the  foregoing  ex- 
tracts ought  not  to  be  called  my  own 
rather  than  Mr.  Biglow's,  as,  indeed,  he 
maintained  stoutly  that  my  file  had  left 
nothing  of  his  in  them.  I  should  not, 
perhaps,  have  felt  entitled  to  take  so 
great  liberties  with  them,  had  1  not 
more  than  suspected  an  hereditary  vein 
of  poetry  in  myself,  a  very  near  ancestor 
having  written  a  Latin  poem  in  the 
Harvard  Gralnlatio  on  the  accession  of 
George  the  Third.  Suffice  it  to  say, 
that,  whether  not  satisfied  with  such 
limited  approbation  as  I  could  con- 
scientiously bestow,  or  from  a  sense  of 
natural  inaptitude,  certain  it  is  that  my 
young  friend  could  never  be  induced  to 
any  further  essays  in  this  kind.  He 
affirmed  that  it  was  to  him  like  writing 
in  a  foreign  tongue,  —  that  Mr.  Pope's 
versification  was  like  the  regular  tick- 
ing of  one  of  Willard's  clocks,  in  which 
one  could  fancy,  after  long  listening,  a 
certain  kind  of  rhythm  or  tune,  but 
which  yet  was  only  a  poverty-stricken 
tick,  tick,  after  all, — and  that  he  had 
never  seen  a  sweet-water  on  a  trellis 
growing  so  fairly,  or  in  forms  so  pleas- 
ing to  his  eye,  as  a  fox-grape  over  a 
scrub-oak  in  a  swamp.  He  added  I 
know  not  what,  to  the  effect  that  the 
sweet-water  would  only  be  the  more  dis- 
figured by  having  its  leaves  starched 
and  ironed  out,  and  that  Pegasus  (so 
he  called  him)  hardly  looked  right  with 
his  mane  and  tail  in  curl-papers.  These 
and  other  such  opinions  I  did  not 
long  strive  to  eradicate,  attributing 
them  rather  to  a  defective  education 
and  senses  untuned  by  too  long  familiar- 


ity with  purely  natural  objects,  than  t» 
a  perverted  moral  sense.  I  was  the 
more  inclined  to  this  leniency  since 
sufficient  evidence  was  not  to  seek,  that 
his  verses,  as  wanting  as  they  certainly 
were  in  classic  polish  and  point,  had 
somehow  taken  hold  of  the  public  ear 
in  a  surprising  manner.  So,  only  set- 
ting him  right  as  to  the  quantity  of  the 
proper  name  Pegasus,  I  left  him  to  fol- 
low the  bent  of  his  natural  genius. 

Yet  could  I  not  surrender  him  wholly 
to  the  tutelage  of  the  pagan  (which, 
literally  interpreted,  signifies  village) 
muse  without  yet  a  further  effort  for  his 
conversion,  and  to  this  end  I  resolved 
that  whatever  of  poetic  fire  yet  burned 
in  myself,  aided  by  the  assiduous  bel- 
lows of  correct  models,  should  be  put 
in  requisition.  Accordingly,  when  my 
ingenious  young  parishioner  brought  to 
my  study  a  copy  of  verses  which  he 
had  written  touching  the  acquisition  or 
territory  resulting  from  the  Mexican 
war,  and  the  folly  of  leaving  the  ques- 
tion of  slavery  or  freedom  to  the  ad- 
judication of  chance,  1  did  myself  indite 
a  short  fable  or  apologue  after  the  man- 
ner of  Gay  and  Prior,  to  the  end  that 
he  might  see  how  easily  even  such  sub- 
jects as  he  treated  of  were  capable  of  a 
more  refined  style  and  more  elegant  ex- 
pression. Mr.  Biglow's  production  was 
as  follows  :  — 

THE   TWO  GUNNERS, 

A  FABLE. 

TWO  fellers,  Isrel  named  and  Joe, 
One  Sundy  mornin'  'greed  to  go 
Agunnin'  soon's  the  bells  wuz  done 
And  meetin'  finally  begun, 
So'st  no  one  would  n't  be  about 
Ther  Sabbath-breakin'  to  spy  out. 

Toe  did  n't  want  to  go  a  mite  ; 

He  felt  ez  though  't  warnt  skeercely  right. 

But,  when  his  doubts  he  went  to  speak  on, 

Isrel  he  up  and  called  him  Deacon, 

An'  kep'  apokin'  fun  like  sin 

An'  then  arubbin'  on  it  in, 

Till  Joe,  less  skeered  o'  doin'  wrong 

Than  bein'  laughed  at,  went  along. 

Past  noontime  they  went  trampin'  round 
An'  nary  thing  to  pop  at  found, 
Till,  fairly  tired  o'  their  spiee, 
They  leaned  their  guns  agin  a  tree, 


INTRODUCTION. 


177 


An"  jest  ez  they  wiaz  settln'  down 

To  take  their  noonin',  Joe  Looked  roun' 

And  see  {across  lots  in  a  pond 

That  warn't  mor'n  twenty  rod  beyond), 

A  goose  that  on  the  water  sot 

Hz  ef  awaitin'  to  be  shot. 

Isrel  he  upS  and  grabs  his  gun  ; 

Sez  he,  "  By  ginger,  here  's  some  fun  !  '* 

"  Don't  fire,'*  sez  Joe,  "  it  aint  no  use, 

Thet  *s  Deacon  Peleg's  tame  wild-goose  " ; 

Sez  Isrel,  "  I  don't  care  a  cent, 

1  Ve  sighted  an'  I  '11  let  her  went  "  ; 

Bant;  !  went  queen's-arm,  ole  gander  flopped 

His  wings  a  spell,  an'  quorked,  an'  dropped. 

Sez  Joe,  "  I  would  n't  ha'  been  hired 
At  that  poor  critter  to  ha'  fired, 
But,  sence  it's  clean  gin  up  the  ghost, 
We  '11  hev  the  tallest  kind  o'  roast ; 
I  guess  our  waistbands '11  be  tight 
'Fore  it  comes  ten  o'clock  termght." 

"  I  won't  agree  to  no  such  bender," 
Sez  Isrel,  "  keep  it  tell  it 's  tender ; 
'T  aint  wuth  a  snap  afore  it  s  ripe." 
Sez  Joe,  "  I  'd  jest  ez  lives  eat  tripe  ; 
You  air  a.  buster  ter  suppose 
I  'd  eat  what  makes  me  hoi'  my  nose  1 " 

So  they  disputed  to  an*  fro 
Till  cunnin*  Isrel  sez  to  Joe, 
'*  Don't  le's  stay  here  an'  play  the  fool, 
Le's  wait  till  both  on  us  git  cool, 
Jest  for  a  day  or  two  le's  hide  it 
An'  then  toss  up  an'  so  decide  it." 
"  Agreed  !  "  sez  Joe,  an' so  they  did, 
An'  the  ole  goose  wuz  safely  hid. 

Now  't  wuz  the  hottest  kind  o'  weather, 
An  when  at  last  they  come  together, 
It  did  n't  signify  which  won, 
Fer  all  the  mischief  hed  ben  done  : 
The  goose  wuz  there,  but,  fer  his  soul, 
Joe  would  n't  ha'  tetched  it  with  a  pole ; 
But  Isrel  kind  o  liked  the  smell  ont 
An'  made  his  dinner  very  well  on't. 

My  own  humble  attempt  was  in  man- 
ner and  form  following,  and  I  print  it 
here,  I  sincerely  trust,  out  of  no  vain- 
glory, but  solely  with  the  hope  of  doing 
good. 

LEAVING  THE  MATTER  OPEN. 


A  TALE. 
BY  HOMER  WILBUR,  A.  M. 

TWO  brothers  once,  an  ill-matched  pair, 
Together  dwelt  (no  matter  where), 
To  whom  an  Uncle  Sain,  or  some  one, 
Had  le  t  a  house  and  farm  in  common* 
The  two  in  principles  and  habits 


Were  different  as  rats  from  rabbits  ; 

Stout  Farmer  North,  with  frugal  care, 

Laid  up  provision  for  his  heir, 

Not  scorning' with  hard  sun-browned  hands 

To  scrape  acquaintance  with  his  lands; 

Whatever  thing  he  had  to  do 

lie  did,  and  made  it  pay  him,  too; 

He  sold  his  waste  stone  by  the  pound, 

His  drains  made  water-wheels  spin  round, 

His  ice  in  summer-time  he  sold, 

His  wood  brought  profit  when  *t  was  cold, 

He  dug  and  delved  from  morn  till  night, 

Strove  to  make  profit  square  with  right, 

Lived  on  his  means,  cut  no  great  dash, 

And  paid  his  debts  in  honest  cash. 

On  tother  hand,  his  brother  South 

Lived  very  much  from  hand  to  mouth, 

Flayed  gentleman,  nursed  dainty  hands, 

Borrowed  North's  money  on  his  lands, 

And  culled  his  morals  and  his  graces 

From  cock-pits,  bar-rooms,  fights,  and  races; 

His  sole  work  in  the  farming  line 

Was  keeping  droves  of  long-legged  swine, 

Which  brought  great  bothers  and  expem.es 

To  North  in  looking  after  fences, 

And,  when  they  happened  to  break  through, 

Cost  him  both  time  and  temper  too, 

For  South  insisted  it  was  plain 

He  ought  to  drive  them  home  again, 

And  North  consented  to  the  work 

Because  he  loved  to  buy  cheap  pork. 

Meanwhile,  South's  swine  increasing  fast, 
His  farm  became  too  small  at  last. 
So,  having  thought  the  matter  over, 
And  feeling  bound  to  live  in  clover 
And  never  pay  the  clover's  worth. 
He  said  one  day  to  Brother  North  :  — 

*'  Our  families  are  both  increasing. 
And,  though  we  labor  without  ceasing, 
Our  produce  soon  will  be  too  scant 
To  keep  our  children  out  of  want ; 
They  who  wish  fortune  to  be  lasting 
Must  be  both  prudent  and  forecasting; 
We  soon  shall  need  more  land  ;  a  lot 
I  know,  that  cheaply  can  be  bo't ; 
You  lend  the  cash,  I  'II  buy  the  acres, 
And  we  '11  be  equally  partakers." 

Poor  North,  whose  Anglo-Saxon  blood 
Gave  him  a  hankering  after  mud, 
Wavered  a  moment,  then  consented, 
And,  when  the  cash  was  paid,  repented  ; 
To  make  the  new  land  worth  a  pin, 
Thought  he,  it  must  be  all  fenced  in, 
For,  if  South  *s  swine  once  get  the  run  on't 
No  kind  of  farming  can  be  done  on't ; 
If  that  don't  suit  the  other  side, 
'T  is  best  we  instantly  divide. 

But  somehow  South  could  ne'er  incline 
This  way  or  that  to  run  the  line, 
And  always  found  some  new  pretence 
'Gainst  setting  the  division  fence  ; 
At  last  he  said  :  — 


178 


THE   BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


"For  peace's  sake, 
Liberal  concessions  I  will  make  ; 
Though  I  believe,  upon  my  soul, 
I  've  a  just  title  to  the  whole, 
I  '11  make  an  offer  which  I  call 
Gen'rous,  — we  '11  have  no  fence  at  all ; 
Then  both  of  us,  whene'er  we  choose. 
Can  take  what  part  we  want  to  use  ; 
If  you  should  chance  to  need  it  first, 
Pick  you  the  best,  I  '11  take  the  worst." 

"  Agreed  1 "  cried  North  ;  thought  he.  This 

fall 
With  wheat  and  rye  I  '11  sow  it  all ; 
In  that  way  I  shall  get  the  start, 
And  South  may  whistle  for  his  part. 
So  thought,  so  done,  the  field  was  sown, 
And,  winter  having  come  and  gone, 
Sly  North  walked  blithely  forth  to  spy, 
The  progress  of  his  wheat  and  rye  ; 
Heavens,  what  a  sight !   his  brother's  swine 
Had  asked  themselves  all  out  to  dine. 
Such  grunting,  munching,  rooting,  shoving, 
The  soil  seemed  all  alive  and  moving, 
As  for  his  grain,  such  work  they  d  made 

on't, 
He  could  n't  spy  a  single  blade  on't. 

Off  in  a  rage  he  rushed  to  South, 

■•My  wheat  and  rye"  — grief   choked    his 

mouth  ; 
•'  Pray  don't  mind  me,"  said   South,   "  but 

plant 
All  of  the  new  land  that  you  want  "  ; 
"  Yes,  but  your  hogs,"  cried  North  ; 

"  The  grain 
Won't  hurt  them,"  answered  South  again  ; 
'•  But  they  destroy  my  grain  "  ; 

"  No  doubt ; 
'T  is  fortunate  you  've  found  it  out ; 
Misfortunes  teach,  and  only  they;i 
You  must  not  sow  it  in  their  way  "  ; 
"  Nay,  you,"  says  North,  "  must  keep  them 

out  " ; 
"  Did  I  create  them  with  a  snout?" 
Asked  South  demurely  ;  "  as  agreed. 
The  land  is  open  to  your  seed, 
And  would  you  fain  prevent  my  pigs 
From  running  there  their  harmless  rigs? 
God  knows  I  view  this  compromise 
With  not  the  most  approving  eyes  ; 
I  gave  up  my  unquestioned  rights 
For  sake  of  quiet  days  and  nights  ; 
I  offered  then,  you  know  't  is  true, 
To  cut  the  piece  of  land  in  two." 
"  Then  cut  it  now,"  growls  North  ; 

"  Abate 
Your  heat,"  says  South,  "'t  is  now  too  late  ; 
I  offered  you  the  rocky  corner. 
But  you,  of  your  own  good  the  scorner, 
Refused  to  take  it ;  I  am  sorry  ; 
No  doubt  you  might  have  found  a  quarry. 
Perhaps  a  gold-mine,  for  aught  I  know, 


Containing  heaps  of  native  rhino  ; 
You  can't  expect  me  to  resign 
My  right  "  — 

"But  where,"  quoth  North,  "are  mine? " 
"Your  rights,"  says   tother,   "well,  that's 

funny, 
/  bought  the  land  "  — 

"  /  paid  the  money '' ; 
"  That,"  answered  South,  "  is  from  the  point, 
The  ownership,  you  '11  grant,  is  joint ; 
I  'm  sure  my  only  hope  and  trust  is 
Not  law  so  much  as  abstract  justice, 
Though,  you  remember,  't  was  agreed 
That  so  and  so  —  consult  the  deed  ; 
Objections  now  are  out  of  date, 
They  might  have  answered  once,  but  Fate 
Quashes  them  at  the  point  we  've  got  to  ; 
Obsta  principiis ,  that 's  my  motto." 
So  saying,  South  began  to  whistle 
And  looked  as  obstinate  as  gristle, 
While  North  went  homeward,  each  brown 

paw 
Clenched  like  a  knot  of  natural  law, 
And  all  the  while,  in  either  ear, 
Heard  something  clicking  wondrous  clear. 

To  turn  now  to  other  matters,  there 
are  two  things  upon  which  it  would 
seem  fitting  to  dilate  somewhat  more 
largely  in  this  place,  —  the  Yankee 
character  and  the  Yankee  dialect. 
And,  first,  of  the  Yankee  character, 
which  has  wanted  neither  open  malign- 
ers,  nor  even  more  dangerous  enemies 
in  the  persons  of  those  unskilful  paint- 
ers who  have  given  to  it  that  hardness, 
angularity,  and  want  of  proper  perspec- 
tive, which,  in  truth,  belonged,  not  to 
their  subject,  but  to  their  own  niggard 
and  unskilful  pencil. 

New  England  was  not  so  much  the 
colony  of  a  mother  country,  as  a  Hagar 
driven  forth  into  the  wilderness.  The 
little  self-exiled  band  which  came 
hither  in  1620  came,  not  to  seek  gold, 
but  to  found  a  democracy.  They  came 
that  they  might  have  the  privilege  to 
work  and  pray,  to  sit  upon  hard  benches 
and  listen  to  painful  preachers  as  long 
as  they  would,  yea,  even  unto  thirty- 
seventhly,  if  the  spirit  so  willed  it. 
And  surely,  if  the  Greek  might  boast 
his  Thermopylae,  where  three  hundred 
men  fell  in  resisting  the  Persian,  we 
may  well  be  proud  of  our  Plymouth 
Rock,  where  a  handful  of  men,  women, 
and  children  not  merely  faced,  but  van 


INTRODUCTION. 


170 


qjished,  winter,  famine,  the  wilder- 
ness, and  the  yet  more  invincible  storge 
that  drew  them  back  to  the  green  island 
far  away.  These  foimd  no  lotus  grow- 
ing upon  the  surly  shore,  the  taste  of 
which  could  make  them  forget  their 
little  native  Ithaca  ;  nor  were  they  so 
wanting  to  themselves  in  faith  as  to 
burn  their  ship,  but  could  see  the  fair 
west  wind  belly  the  homeward  sail,  and 
then  turn  unrepining  to  grapple  with 
the  terrible  Unknown. 

As  Want  was  the  prime  foe  these 
hardy  exodists  had  to  fortress  them- 
selves against,  so  it  is  little  wonder  if 
that  traditional  feud  is  long  in  wearing 
out  of  the  stock.  The  wounds  of  the 
old  warfare  were  long  a-healing,  and  an 
east  wind  of  hard  times  puts  a  new 
ache  in  every  one  of  them.  Thrift  was 
the  first  lesson  in  their  hornbook, 
pointed  out,  letter  after  letter,  by  the 
lean  finger  of  the  hard  schoolmaster, 
Necessity.  Neither  were  those  plump, 
rosy-gilled  Englishmen  that  came  hith- 
er, but  a  hard-faced,  atrabilious,  ear- 
nest-eyed race,  stiff  from  long  wrestling 
with  the  Lord  in  prayer,  and  who  had 
taught  Satan  to  dread  the  new  Puritan 
hug.  Add  two  hundred  years'  influ- 
ence of  soil,  climate,  and  exposure, 
with  its  necessary  result  of  idiosyncra- 
sies, and  we  have  the  present  Yankee, 
fuh  of  expedients,  half-master  of  all 
trades,  inventive  in  all  but  the  beauti- 
ful, full  of  shifts,  not  yet  capable  of  com- 
fort, armed  at  all  points  against  the 
old  enemy  Hunger,  longanimous,  good 
at  patching,  not  so  careful  for  what  is 
best  as  for  what  will  do,  with  a  clasp  to 
his  purse  and  a  button  to  his  pocket, 
not  skilled  to  build  against  Time,  as  in 
old  countries,  but  against  sore-pressing 
Need,  accustomed  to  move  the  world 
with  no  trou  <rrui  but  his  own  two  feet, 
and  no  lever  but  his  own  long  forecast. 
A  strange  hybrid,  indeed,  did  circum- 
stance beget,  here  in  the  New  World, 
upon  the  old  Puritan  stock,  and  the 
earth  never  before  saw  such  mystic- 
practicalism,  such  niggard-geniality, 
such  calculating-fanaticism,  such  cast- 
iron-enthusiasm,  such  sour-faced-hu- 
*nor,  such  close-fisted-generosity.    This 


new  Grceculus  esuriens  will  make  a 
living  out  of  anything.  He  will  invent 
new  trades  as  well  as  tools.  His  brain 
is  his  capital,  and  he  will  get  education 
at  all  risks.  Put  him  on  Juan  Fernan- 
dez, and  he  would  make  a  spelling- 
book  first,  and  a  salt-pan  afterward. 
In  c&liim,  jusseris,  i/'it,  —  or  the  other 
way  either,  —  it  is  all  one,  so  anything 
is  to  be  got  by  it.  Yet,  after  all,  thin, 
speculative  Jonathan  is  more  like  the 
Englishman  of  two  centuries  ago  than 
John  Bull  himself  is.  He  has  lost 
somewhat  in  solidity,  has  become  fluent 
and  adaptable,  but  more  of  the  original 
groundwork  of  character  remains.  He 
feels  more  at  home  with  Fulke  Greville, 
Herbert  of  Cherbury,  Quarles,  George 
Herbert,  and  Browne,  than  with  his 
modern  English  cousins.  He  is  nearer 
than  John,  Dy  at  least  a  hundred  years, 
to  Naseby,  Marston  Moor,  Worcester, 
and  the  time  when,  if  ever,  there  were 
true  Englishmen.  John  Bull  has  suf- 
fered the  idea  of  the  Invisible  to  be 
very  much  fattened  out  of  him.  Jona- 
than is  conscious  still  that  he  lives  in 
the  world  of  the  Unseen  as  well  as  of 
the  Seen.  To  move  John  you  must 
make  your  fulcrum  of  solid  beef  and 
pudding  ;  an  abstract  idea  will  do  for 
Jonathan. 


%*  TO  THE  INDULGENT 
READER. 

MY  friend,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Wilbur,  having 
been  seized  with  a  dangerous  fit  of  illness, 
before  this  Introduction  had  passed  through 
the  press,  and  being  incapacitated  for  all 
literary  exertion,  sent  to  me  his  notes,  mem- 
oranda, &c,  and  requested  me  to  fashion 
them  into  some  shape  more  fitting  for  the 
general  eye.  This,  owing  to  the  fragmentary 
and  disjointed  state  of  his  manuscripts,  I 
have  felt  wholly  unable  to  do  ;  yet,  being  un- 
willing that  the  reader  should  be  deprived  of 
such  parts  of  his  lucubrations  as  seemed  more 
finished,  and  not  well  discerning  how  to 
segregate  these  from  the  rest,  I  have  con- 
cluded to  send  them  all  to  the  press  precisely 
as  they  are. 

COLUMBUS   NYE, 
Pas/or  of  a  Church  in  £ungt<mm 
Corner. 


x8o 


THE   BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


It  remains  to  speak  of  the  Yankee 
dialect.  And,  first,  it  may  be  premised, 
in  a  general  way,  that  any  one  much 
read  in  the  writings  of  the  early  colonists 
need  not  be  told  that  the  far  greater 
share  of  the  words  and  phrases  now 
esteemed  peculiar  to  New  England, 
and  local  there,  were  brought  from  the 
mother  country.  A  person  familiar  with 
the  dialect  of  certain  portions  of  Mas- 
sachusetts will  not  fail  to  recognize,  in 
ordinary  discourse,  many  words  now 
noted  in  English  vocabularies  as  ar- 
chaic, the  greater  part  of  which  were  in 
common  use  about  the  time  of  the  King 
James  translation  of  the  Bible.  Shake- 
speare stands  less  in  need  of  a  glossary 
to  most  New  Englanders  than  to  many 
a  native  of  the  Old  Country.  The  pe- 
culiarities of  our  speech,  however,  are 
rapidly  wearing  out.  As  there  is  no 
country  where  reading  is  so  universal 
and  newspapers  are  so  multitudinous, 
so  no  phrase  remains  long  local,  but  is 
transplanted  in  the  mail-bags  to  every 
remotest  corner  of  the  land.  Conse- 
quently our  dialect  approaches  nearer 
to  uniformity  than  that  of  any  other 
nation. 

The  English  have  complained  of  us 
for  coining  new  words.  Many  of  those 
so  stigmatized  were  old  ones  by  them 
forgotten,  and  all  make  now  an  un- 
questioned part  of  the  currency,  wher- 
ever English  is  spoken.  Undoubtedly, 
we  have  a  right  to  make  new  words,  as 
they  are  needed  by  the  fresh  aspects 
under  which  life  presents  itself  here  in 
the  New  World  ;  and,  indeed,  wherever 
a  language  is  alive,  it  grows.  It  might 
be  questioned  whether  we  could  not 
establish  a  stronger  title  to  the  owner- 
ship of  the  English  tongue  than  the 
mother-islanders  themselves.  Here, 
past  all  question,  is  to  be  its  great  home 
and  centre.  And  not  only  is  it  already 
spoken  here  by  greater  numbers,  but 
with  a  far  higher  popular  average  of 
correctness  than  in  Britain.  The  great 
writers  of  it,  too,  we  might  claim  as 
ours,  were  ownership  to  be  settled  by 
the  number  of  readers  and  lovers. 

As  regards  the  provincialisms  to  be 
met  with  in  this  volume,   I   may   say 


that  the  reader  will  not  find  one  which 
is  not  (as  I  believe)  either  native  or  im- 
ported with  the  early  settlers,  nor  one 
which  I  have  not,  with  my  own  ears, 
heard  in  familiar  use.  In  the  metrical 
portion  of  the  book,  I  have  endeavored 
to  adapt  the  spelling  as  nearly  as  pos- 
sible to  the  ordinary  mode  of  pronunci- 
ation. Let  the  reader  who  deems  me 
over-particular  remember  this  caution 
of  Martial :  — 

"  Quern  recitas,  Tneus  est,  O  Fidentine,  libel- 
lus ; 
Sed  male  eum  recitas,  incipit  esse  tuits." 

A  few  further  explanatory  remarks 
will  not  be  impertinent. 

I  shall  barely  lay  down  a  few  general 
rules  for  the  reader's  guidance. 

i.  The  genuine  Yankee  never  gives 
the  rough  sound  to  the  r  when  he  can 
help  it,  and  often  displays  considerable 
ingenuity  in  avoiding  it  even  before  a 
vowel. 

2.  He  seldom  sounds  the  final  g,  a 
piece  of  self-denial,  if  we  consider  his 
partiality  for  nasals.  The  same  of  the 
final  d,  as  haul  and  stan'  for  hand  and 
stand. 

3.  The  h  in  such  words  as  while, 
-when,  where,  he  omits  altogether. 

4.  In  regard  to  a,  he  shows  some  in- 
consistency, sometimes  giving  a  close 
and  obscure  sound,  as  hev  for  Jiave, 
hendy  for  handy,  ez  for  as,  tliet  for 
that,  and  again  giving  it  the  broad 
sound  it  has  in  father,  as  hansome  for 
handsome. 

5.  To  the  sound  on  he  prefixes  an  e 
(hard  to  exemplify  otherwise  than  oral- 

The  following  passage  in  Shakespeare 

he  would  recite  thus  :  — 

"  Meow  is  the  winta  uv  eour  discontent 
Med  glorious  summa  by  this  sun  o*  Yock, 
An"  all  the  cleouds  thet  leovrered  upun  eour 

heouse 
In  the  deep  buzzum  o'  the  oshin  buried ; 
Neow  air  eour  breows  beound  'ith  victorious 

wreaths  ; 
Eour  breused  arms  hung  up  fer  monimunce  ; 
Eour  starn  alarums  changed  to  merry  meet* 

ins, 
Eour  dreffle  marches  to  delighfle  masures- 


INTRODUCTION. 


181 


Grim-visaged  war  heth  smeuthcd  his  wrinkled 

front. 
An'  neow,  instid  o'  mountin'  barebid  steeds 
To  fright  the  smils  o'  ferlle  edverseries, 
He  ca]  rrs  nimly  in  a  lady's  chamber, 
To  the  lascivious  plcasin  uv  a  loot." 

6.  Au,  in  such  words  as  daughter 
and  slaughter,  he  pronounces  ah. 

7.  To  the  dish  thus  seasoned  add  a 
draw)  ad  libitum. 

[Mr.  Wilbur's  notes  here  become  entirely 
fragmentary.  —  C.  N.] 

a.  Unable  to  procure  a  likeness  of 
Mr.  Biglow,  I  thought  the  curious  read- 
er might  be  gratified  with  a  sight  of 
the  editorial  effigies.  And  here  a  choice 
between  two  was  offered, — the  one  a 
profile  (entirely  black)  cut  by  Doyle, 
the  other  a  portrait  painted  by  a  native 
artist  of  much  promise.  The  first  of 
these  seemed  wanting  in  expression, 
andin  the  second  a  slight  obliquity  of 
the  visual  organs  has  been  heightened 
(perhaps  from  an  over-desire  of  force 
on  the  part  of  the  artist)  into  too  close 
an  approach  to  actual  strabismus.  This 
slight  divergence  in  my  optical  appara- 
tus from  the  ordinary  model  —  however 
1  may  have  been  taught  to  regard  it  in 
the  light  of  a  mercy  rather  than  a  cross, 
since  it  enabled  me  to  give  as  much  of 
directness  and  personal  application  to 
my  discourses  as  met  the  wants  of  my 
congregation,  without  risk  of  offending 
any  by  being  supposed  to  have  him  or 
her  in  my  eye  (as  the  saying  is)  — 
seemed  yet  to  Mrs.  Wilbur  a  sufficient 
objection  to  the  engraving  of  the  afore- 
said painting.  We  read  of  many  who 
either  absolutely  refused  to  allow  the 
copying  of  their  features,  as  especially 
did  Plotintis  and  Agesilaus  among  the 
ancients,  not  to  mention  the  more  mod- 
ern instances  ofScioppius,  Palaeottus, 
Pinellus,  Velserus,  Gataker,  and  others, 
or  were  indifferent  thereto,  as  Crom- 
well. 

p.  Yet  was  Caesar  desirous  of  conceal- 
ing his  baldness.  Per  contra,  my  Lord 
Protector's  carefulness  in  the  matter  of 
his  wart  might  be  cited.  Men  gener- 
ally more  desirous  of  being  improved  in 


their  portraits  than  characters.     Shall 

probably  find  very  untkittered  likeness- 
es of  ourselves  in  Recording  Angel's 
gallery. 

y.  Whether  any  of  our  national 
peculiarities  may  be  traced  to  our 
use  of  stoves,  as  a  certain  close- 
ness of  the  lips  in  pronunciation,  and 
a  smothered  smoulderingness  of  dis- 
position seldom  roused  to  open  flame? 
An  unrestrained  intercourse  with  fire 
probably  conducive  to  generosity  and 
hospitality  of  soul.  Ancient  Mexicans 
used  stoves,  as  the  friar  Augustin  Ruiz 
reports,  Hakluyt,  III.,  468,  —  but  Pop- 
ish priests  not  always  reliable  authority. 

To-day  picked  my  Isabella  grapes. 
Crop  injured  by  attacks  of  rose  bug  in 
the  spring.  Whether  Noah  was  justi- 
fiable in  preserving  this  class  of  in- 
sects? 

S.  Concerning  Mr.  Biglow's pedigree. 
Tolerably  certain  that  there  was  never 
a  poet  among  his  ancestors.  An  ordi- 
nation hymn  attributed  to  a  maternal 
uncle,  but  perhaps  a  sort  of  production 
not  demanding  the  creative  faculty. 

His  grandfather  a  painter  of  the  gran- 
diose or  Michael  Angelo  school.  Sel- 
dom painted  objects  smaller  than 
houses  or  barns,  and  these  with  un- 
common expression. 

e.  Of  the  Wilburs  no  complete  pedi- 
gree. The  crest  said  to  be  a  wild  boar, 
whence,  perhaps,  the  name.(?)  A  con- 
nection with  the  Earls  of  Wilbraham 
{quasi  wild  boar  ham)  might  be  made 
out.     This  suggestion  worth  following 

up.     In  1677,  John  W.  m.  Expect , 

had  issue,  1.  John,  2.  Haggai,  3.  Ex- 
pect, 4.  Ruhamah,  5.  Desire. 

"  Hear  lyes  ye  bodye  of  Mrs  Expect  Wilber, 
Ye  crewell  salvages  they  kil'd  her 
Together  w(h  other  Christian  soles  eleaven, 
October  ye  ix  daye,  1707. 
Ye  stream  of  Jordan  sh'  as  crost  ore 
And  now  expeacts  me  on  ye  other  shore  : 
I  live  in  hope  her  soon  to  join  ; 
Her  earthlye  yeeres  were  forty  and  nine." 
From   Gravestone  in  Pekussett,  North 
Parish. 


7~£  i ::-i:    "  .-.^.-i.-: 


TI'.S  1!  UT-r"  :-  i:  "  ;  -"-  e  _" '  -  r. 
who  afterward  :  - : :  carried  1  abitha 
Hagg  or  Ragg. 

seems 
- 

-   _   «e  have  evidence 
da  -shier  of 
!_.;  _:e_  i- :   I   : :      . 

:  ■ 
fUTirf,  for  we  : 

. .  j  .  "Ma 

meadow  "  in  Yabbok,  and  be  com- 
manded a  :  :  700. 

:  -         -    -       -     :  -       - 

genealogical  studies  fvtte  patios  qmam 
ergiamewio  enufirwrfi 

1  trace  him  as  fer  as  :  -.  :  1  there 
lose  him.     In  as  chosen 


when  new  hearse-  house  was  bu:  • 
He  was  probahlT  the  son  of 
who  came  from  BSham  Count.  Salop. 

This  first  John  was  a  man  of  consid- 
erable importance,  being  twice  men- 
•     -  -  :         ■ 

e  town  records.     Kame  spelt  with 
rwo.-s. 


!«    bod    {Home    mJtaffOj 
■    - 
Mr.  Than  water 

7*  i 

'.  -  :  t  -'.... 

.....  t  ";— '. 

A  frier  I     -.:rje  aE  j*  oprcast, 

■=di 
WAen  -  -  ^e  bis  . 

: 

Itisr-::        '     be  lamented  th: 
curious  epitaph  is  mutilated-    It  is  said 
that  the  sacrilegious  British  soil 
made  a  Ian»e1  :ne  daring  the 

war  of  Independence.  How  odious  an 
ammosiiy  which  pauses  not  at  the 
grave  '.  How  brutal  that  which  spares 
the  monuments  of  authentic  his- 
7h  is  is  not  improbably  from  the 
pen  of  Rev  Moody  Pyram,  who  is 
iw  alumni  by  Hubbard  as  having  been 
noted  for  i  saba  vein  of  poetry.  If 
his  papers  be  still  extant,  ajcopy  c  . 
passibiy  be  recovered. 


THE    BIGLOW    PAPERS. 


No.  I. 
A  LETTER 

FROM  MR.  EZEKIEL  BIGLOW  OF  JAALAM 
TO  THE  HON.  JOSEPH  T.  BUCKING- 
HAM, EDITOR  OF  THE  BOSTON  COU- 
RIER. INCLOSING  A  POEM  OF  HIS  SON, 
MR.  HOSEA  BIGLOW. 

JAVLEM.  June  1846- 

Mister  Eddyter:  — Our  Hosea 
wuz  down  to  Boston  last  week,  and  he 
seeacruetin  Sarjunt  a  struttin  round 
as  popler  as  a  hen  with  1  chicking,  with 
2  fellers  a  drummin  and  fifin  arter  him 
like  all  nater  the  sarjunt  he  thout 
Hosea  hed  n't  gut  his  i  teeth  cut  cos 
he  looked  a  kindo  's  though  he  'd  jest 
com  down,  so  he  cal'lated  to  hook  him 
in,  but  Hosv  wood  n't  take  none  o'  his 
sarse  for  all'he  hed  much  as  20  Roos- 
ter's tales  stuck  onto  his  hat  and  eena- 
raost  enuf  brass  a  bobbin  up  and  down 
on  his  shoulders  and  figureed  onto  his 
coat  and  trousis.  let  alone  wut  nater 
hed  sot  in  his  featers,  to  make  a  6 
pounder  out  on. 

waL,  Hosea  he  com  home  consider- 
abal  riled,  and  arter  I  'd  gone  to  bed  I 
heern  Him  a  thrashin  round  like  a 
short-tailed  Bull  in  fli-time.  The  old 
Woman  ses  she  to  me  ses  she,  Zekle, 
ses  she,  our  Hosee  's  gut  the  chollery 
or  suthin  anuther  ses  she,  don't  you 
Bee  skeered,  ses  I,  he  's  oney  amakin 
pottery*  ses  i,  he's  oilers  on  hand  at 
that  ere  busynes  like  Da  &  martin, 
and  shure  enuf,  cum  mornin,  Hosy  he 
cum  down  stares  full  chizzle,   hare  on 

•  Aut  insanit,  aut  versos fcuit.  —  H.  W. 


eend  and  cote  tales  flyin,  and  sot .  ntt 
of  to  go  reed  his  varses  to  Parson  Wil- 
bur bein  he  haint  aney  grate  shows  o 
book  lamin  himself,  bimeby  he  cum 
back  and  sed  the  parson  wuz  dreffle 
tickled  with  'em  as  i  hoop  you  will  Be, 
and  said  they  wuz  True  grit. 

Hosea  ses  taint  hardly  fair  to  cail 
'em  hisu  now,  cos  the  parson  kind  o 
kicked  off  sum  o'  the  last  varses,  but 
he  to'd  Hosee  he  did  n't  want  to  put  his 
ore  in  to  tetch  to  the  Rest  on  'em, 
bein  they  wuz  verry  well  As  thay  wuz, 
and  then  Hosy  ses  he  sed  suthin  a 
nuther  about  Simplex  Mundishes  or 
sum  sech  feller,  but  I  guess  Hosea 
kind  o'  did  n't  hear  him,  for  I  never 
heam  o'  nobodv  o'  that  name  in  this 
villadge,  and  I  've  lived  here  man  and 
boy  76  vear  cum  next  tater  diggin,  and 
thair  alnt  no  wheres  a  kitting  spryer 
'n  I  be. 

If  you  print  'em  I  wish  you  d  jest 
let  folks  know  who  hosy's  father  is,  cos 
my  ant  Keziah  used  to  say  it 's  nater 
to  be  euros  ses  she,  she  aim  livin 
though  and  he  's  a  likely  kind  o'  lad. 
5  EZEKIEL.  BIGLOW. 


Thrash  away,  you  HI  kevio  rattle 

On  them  kittle-drums  o'  yourn,  — 
'Taint  a  knowin'  kind  o'  cattle 

Thet  is  ketched  with  mouldy  corn 
Put  in  stiff,  you  fifer  feller, 

Let  folks  see  how  spry  you  be,  — 
Guess  you  '11  toot  till  you  are  yeller 

'Fore  you  git  ahold  o'  me  ! 

Thet  air  flag 's  a  leetle  rotten 

Hope  it  aim  your  Sunday's  best ;  - 


,84 


THE   BIGLOIV  PAPERS. 


Fact  !  it  takes  a  sight  o'  cotton 
To  stuff  out  a  soger's  chest; 

Sence  we  farmers  hev  to  pay  fer  't, 
Ef  you  must  wear  humps  like  these, 

Sposin'  you  should  try  salt  hay  fer  't, 
It  would  du  ez  slick  ez  grease. 

'T  would  n't  suit  them  Southun  fellers, 

They  're  a  dreffle  graspin'  set, 
We  must  oilers  blow  the  hellers 

Wen  they  want  their  irons  het  ; 
May  be  it  's  all  right  ez  preachin', 

But  my  narves  it  kind  o'  grates, 
Wen  I  see  the  overreachin' 

©'  them  nigger-drivin'  States. 

Them  thet  rule  us,  them  slave-traders, 

Haint  they  cut  a  thunderin'  swarth 
(Helped  by  Yankee  renegaders), 

Thru  the  vartu  o'  the  North  ! 
We  begin  to  think  it  's  nater 

To  take  sarse  an'  not  be  riled  ;  — 
Who  'd  expect  to  see  a  tater 

All  on  eend  at  bein'  biled? 

Ez  fer  war,  I  call  it  murder,  — 

There  you  hev  it  plain  an'  flat  ; 
I  don't  want  to  go  no  furder 

Than  my  Testyment  fer  that  ; 
God  hez  sed  so  plump  an'  fairly, 

It  's  ez  long  ez  it  is  broad, 
An'  you  've  gut  to  git  up  airly 

Ef  you  want  to  take  in  God. 

'Taint  your  eppyletts  an'  feathers 

Make  the  thing  a  grain  more  right  ; 
'Taint  afollerin'  your  bell-wethers 

Will  excuse  ye  in  His  sight  ; 
Ef  you  take  a  sword  an'  dror  it, 

An'  go  stick  a  feller  thru, 
Guv'ment  aint  to  answer  for  it, 

God  Ml  send  the  bill  to  you. 

Wut  's  the  use  o'  meetin'-goin' 

Every  Sabbath,  wet  or  dry, 
Ef  it 's  right  to  go  amowin' 

Feller-men  like  oats  an'  rye? 
I  dunno  but  wut  it 's  pooty 

Trainin'  round  in  bobtail  coats,  — 
But  it's  curus  Christian  dooty 

This  'ere  cuttin'  folks's  throats. 

They  may  talk  o'  Freedom's  airy 
Tell  they  're  pupple  in  the  face,  — 


It 's  a  grand  gret  cemetary 

Fer  the  batthrights  of  our  race; 

They  jest  want  this  Californy 
So  's  to  lug  new  slave-states  in 

To  abuse  ye,  an'  to  scorn  ye, 
An'  to  plunder  ye  like  sin. 

Aint  it  cute  to  see  a  Yankee 

Take  sech  everlastin'  pains, 
All  to  git  the  Devil's  thankee 

Helpin'  on  'em  weld  their  chains? 
Wy,  it 's  jest  ez  clear  ez  Aggers, 

Clear  ez  one  an'  one  make  two, 
Chaps  thet  make  black  slaves  o'  niggers 

Want  to  make  wite  slaves  o'  you. 

Tell  ye  jest  the  eend  I  've  come  to 

Arter  cipherin'  plaguy  smart, 
An'  it  makes  a  handy  sum,  tu, 

Any  gump  could  lam  by  heart ; 
Laborin'  man  an'  laborin'  woman 

Hev  one  glory  an'  one  shame, 
Ev'y  thin'  thet  's  done  inhuman 

Injers  all  on  'em  the  same. 

'Taint  by  tumin'  out  to  hack  folks 

You  're  agoin'  to  git  your  right. 
Nor  by  lookin'  down  on  black  folks 

Coz  you  're  put  upon  by  wite  ; 
Slavery  aint  o'  nary  color, 

'Taint  the  hide  thet  makes  it  wus, 
All  it  keers  fer  in  a  feller 

'S  jest  to  make  him  fill  its  pus. 

Want  to  tackle  me  in,  du  ye? 

I  expect  you  'II  hev  to  wait  ; 
Wen  cold  lead  puts  daylight  thru  ye 

You  '11  begin  to  kal'late  ; 
S'pose  the  crows  wun't  fall  to  pickin' 

All  the  carkiss  from  your  bones, 
Coz  you  helped  to  give  a  lickin' 

To  them  poor  half-Spanish  drones? 

Jest  go  home  an'  ask  our  Nancy 

Wether  I  'd  be  sech  a  goose 
Ez  to  jine  ye,  — guess  you  'd  fancy 

The  etarnal  bung  wuz  loose  ! 
She  wants  me  fer  home  consumption. 

Let  alone  the  hay  's  to  mow,  — 
Ef  you  're  arter  folks  o'  gumption, 

You  've  a  darned  long  row  to  hoi. 

Take  them  eritors  thet  's  crowin' 
Like  a  cockerel  three  months  old,  -* 


THE   B I  GLOW  PAPERS. 


•85 


Don't  ketch  any  on  'cm  goin', 
Though  they  be  so  blasted  bold  ; 

A  int  they  a  prime  lot  o'  fellers  ? 

'Kore  they  think  on 't  they  will  sprout 

(Like  a  peach  thet  's  got  the  yellers), 
With  the  meanness  buslin'  out. 

Wal,  go  'long  to  help  'em  stealin' 

Bigger  pens  to  cram  with  slaves, 
Help  the  men  thet's  oilers  dealin' 

Insults  on  your  fathers'  graves  ; 
Help  the  strong  to  grind  the  feeble, 

Help  the  many  agin  the  few, 
Help  the  men  thet  call  your  people 

Wite  washed     slaves     an'     peddliii' 
crew  I 

Massachusetts,  God  forgive  her, 

She  's  akneelin'  with  the  rest, 
She,  thet  ough'  to  ha'  clung  ferever 

In  her  grand  old  eagle-nest ; 
She  thet  ough'  to  stand  so  fearless 

Wile  the  wracks  are  round  her  hurled, 
Holdin'  up  a  beacon  peerless 

To  the  oppressed  of  all  the  world  ! 

Haint  they  seld  your  colored  seamen  ? 

Haint  they  made  your  env'ys  wiz? 
Wut'W  make  ye  act  like  freemen  ? 

IVut  '11  git  your  dander  riz  ? 
Come,  I  '11  tell  ye  wut  I  'm  thinkin' 

Is  our  dooty  in  this  fix, 
They  'd  ha'  done  't  ez  quick  ez  winkin' 

In  the  days  o'  seventy-six. 

Clang  the  bells  in  every  steeple, 

Call  all  true  men  to  disown 
The  tradoocers  of  our  people, 

The  enslavers  o'  their  own  ; 
Let  our  dear  old  Bay  State  proudly 

Put  the  trumpet  to  her  mouth, 
Let  her  ring  this  messidge  loudly 

In  the  ears  of  all  the  South  :  — 

"I  '11  return  ye  good  fer  evil 

Much  ez  we  frail  mortils  can, 
But  I  wun't  go  help  the  Devil 

Makin'  man  the  cus  o'  man  ; 
Call  me  coward,  call  me  traiter, 

Jest  ez  suits  your  mean  idees,  — 
Here  I  stand  a  tyrant-hater, 

An'  the  friend  o'  God  an'  Peace  !" 

Ef  I  'd  my  way  I  hed  ruther 
We  should  go  to  work  an'  part,  — 


They  take  one  way,  we  take  t'other,— 
Guess  it  would  n't  break  my  heart ; 

Man  hed  ough'  to  put  asunder 
Them  thet  God  has  noways  jined; 

An'  I  should  n't  gretly  wonder 
Ef  there  's  thousands  o'  my  mind. 

[The  first  recruiting  sergeant  on  record  1 
conceive  to  have  been  that  individual  who  is 
mentioned  in  the  Book  of  Job  as  going  to 
and  fro  in  the  earth,  and  walking  up  and 
down  in  it.  Bishop  Latimer  will  have  him  to 
have  been  a  bishop,  but  to  me  that  other 
calling  would  appear  more  congenial.  The 
sect  of  Cainites  is  not  yet  extinct,  who  es- 
teemed the  first-born  of  Adam  to  be  the 
most  worthy,  not  only  because  of  that  privi- 
lege of  primogeniture,  but  inasmuch  as  he 
was  able  to  overcome  and  slay  his  younger 
brother.  That  was  a  wise  saying  of  the  fa- 
mous Marquis  Pescara  to  the  Papal  Legate, 
that  it  was  impossible  for  men  to  serve 
Mars  and  Christ  at  the  same  time.  Yet  in 
time  past  the  profession  of  arms  was  judged 
to  be  «ut'  efox'ji'  that  of  a  gentleman,  nor 
does  this  opinion  want  for  strenuous  uphold- 
ers even  in  our  day.  Must  we  suppose, 
then,  that  the  profession  of  Christianity  was 
only  intended  for  losels,  or,  at  best,  to  afford 
an  opening  for  plebeian  ambition  ?  Or  shall 
we  hold  with  that  nicely  metaphysical  Pome- 
ranian, Captain  Vratz,  who  was  Count*Ko- 
nigsmark's  chief  instrument  in  the  murder  of 
Mr.  Thynne,  that  the  Scheme  of  Salvation 
has  been  arranged  with  an  especial  eye  to 
the  necessities  of  the  upper  classes,  and  that 
"  God  would  consider  a  gentleman  and  deal 
with  him  suitably  to  the  condition  and  pro- 
fession he  had  placed  him  in  "  f  It  may  be 
said  of  us  all,  Exemplo  plus  auam  ration* 
vivimus.  —  H.  W.] 


No.  II. 
A  LETTER 

FROM  MR.  HOSEA  BIGLOW  TO  THE 
HON.  J.  T.  BUCKINGHAM,  EDITOR  OF 
THE  BOSTON  COURIER,  COVERING  A 
LETTER  FROM  MR.  B.  SAWIN,  PRI- 
VATE IN  THE  MASSACHUSETTS  REGI- 
MENT. 

[This  letter  of  Mr.  Sawin's  was  not  origi- 
nally written  in  verse.  Mr.  Biglow,  thinking 
it  peculiarly  susceptible  of  metrical  adorn- 
ment, translated  it,  so  to  speak,  into  his  own 
vernacular  tongue.  This  is  not  the  time  t» 
consider  the  question,  whether  rhyme  be  a 
mode  of  expression  natural  to  the  human 


i86 


THE   BIGLOIV  PAPERS. 


race.     If  leisure  from  other  and  more  im- 
portant avocations  be  granted,  I  will  handle 
the  matter  more  at  large  in  an  appendix  to 
the  present  volume.      In  this  place  I   will 
barely  remark,  that  I  have  sometimes  noticed 
in  the  unlanguaged  prattlings  of  infants  a 
fondness  for  alliteration,  assonance,  and  even 
rhyme,  in  which  natural  predisposition  we 
may  trace  the  three  degrees  through  which 
our  Anglo-Saxon  verse  rose  to  its  culmina- 
tion in  the  poetry  of  Pope.     I  would  not  be 
understood  as  questioning  in  these  remarks 
that  pious  theory  which  supposes  that  chil- 
dren, if  left  entirely  to  themselves,   would 
naturally  discourse  in  Hebrew.     For  this  the 
authority  of  one  experiment  is  claimed,  and 
I   could,  with  Sir   Thomas    Browne,  desire 
its  establishment,  inasmuch  as  the  acquire- 
ment of   that  sacred   tongue    would  there- 
by be  facilitated.     I  am  aware  that  Herodo- 
tus states  the  conclusion  of  Psammeticus  to 
have  been  in  favor  of  a  dialect  of  the  Phry- 
gian.     But,  beside  the  chance  that  a  trial  of 
this  importance  would  hardly  be  blessed  to 
a  Pagan  monarch  whose  only  motive   was 
curiosity,  we  have  on  the  Hebrew  side  the 
comparatively  recent  investigation  of  James 
the  Fourth  of  Scotland.     I  will  add  to  this 
prefatory  remark,  that  Mr.  Sawin,  though 
a  native  of  Jaalam,  has  never  been  a  stated 
attendant  on  the  religious  exercises  of  my 
congregation.     I  consider  my  humble  efforts 
prospered  in  that  not  one  of  my  sheep  hath 
evef  indued  the  wolf's  clothing  of  war,  save 
for  the  comparatively  innocent  diversion  of 
a  militia  training.     Not  that  my   flock  are 
backward  to  undergo  the  hardships  of  de- 
fensive warfare.     They  serve  cheerfully  in 
the  great  army  which  fights  even  unto  death 
fro  aris  el  focis,  accoutred  with  the  spade, 
the  axe,  the  plane,  the  sledge,  the  spellmg- 
book,    and    other  such    effectual    weapons 
against  want  and  ignorance  and  unthrift.     I 
have  taught  them  (under  God)  to  esteem  our 
human  institutions  as  but  tents  of  a  night, 
to  be  stricken  whenever  Truth  puts  the  bugle 
to  her  lips  and  sounds  a  march  to  the  heights 
of  wider-viewed  intelligence  and  more  per- 
fect organization.  —  H.  W.] 

Mister  Buckinum,  the  follerin  Bil- 
let was  writ  hum  by  a  Yung  feller  of 
our  town  that  wuz  cussed  fool  enuff  to 
goe  atrottin  inter  Miss  Chiff  arter  a 
Drum  and  fife,  it  ain't  Nater  for  a 
feller  to  let  on  that  he  's  sick  o'  any 
bizness  that  He  went  intu  off  his  own 
free  will  and  a  Cord,  but  I  rather  cal'- 
late  he  's  middlin  tired  o'  voluntearin  By 
this  Time.  I  bleeve  u  may  put  depen- 
dents on  his  statemence.  For  I  never 
heered  nothin  bad  on  him  let  Alone  his 
havin  what  Parson  Wilbur  cals  a  pong- 
thong  for  cocktales,  and  he  ses  it  wuz  a 


soshiashun  of  idees  sot  him  agoin  arter 
the  Crootin  Sargient  cos  he  wore  a 
cocktale  onto  his  hat. 

his  Folks  gin  the  letter  to  me  audi 
shew  it  to  parson  Wilbur  and  he  ses  it 
oughter  Bee  printed,  send  It  to  mis- 
ter Buckinum,  ses  he,  i  don't  oilers 
agree  with  him,  ses  he,  but  by  Time,* 
ses  he,  I  du  like  a  feller  that  aim  a 
Feared. 

I  have  intusspussed  a  Few  refleck- 
shuns  hear  and  thair.  We  're  kind  o' 
prest  with  Hayin. 

Ewers  respecfly 

HOSEA   BIGLOW. 

This  kind  o'  sogerin'  aint  a  mite  like 

our  October  trainin', 
A  chap  could  clear  right  out  from  there 

ef  't  only  looked  liked  rainin', 
An'    th'  Cunnles,  tu,   could   kiver  up 

their  shappoes  with  bandanners, 
An'  send  the   insines   skootin'   to  the 

bar-room  with  their  banners 
(Fear  o'  gittin'  on  'em  spotted),  an'  a 

feller  could  cry  quarter 
Ef  he  fired  away  his  ramrod  arter  tu 

much  rum  an'  water. 
Recollect  wut  fun  we  hed,  you'n'  I  an' 

Ezry  Hollis. 
Up   there   to    Waltham  plain  last  fall, 

along  o'  the  Cornwallis?t 
This  sort  o'  thing  aint  jest  like  thet,  — 

I  wish  thet  I  wuz  furder,  —  X 
Nimepunce  a  day  fer  killin'  folks  comes 

kind  o'  low  fer  murder, 
(Wy  I  've  worked  out  to  slarterin'  some 

fer  Deacon  Cephas  Billins, 
An'  in  the  hardest  times  there  wuz  I 
oilers  tetched  ten  shillins,) 

*  In  relation  to  this  expression,  I  cannot 
but  think  that  Mr.  Biglow  has  been  too  hasty 
in  attributing  it  to  me.  Though  Time  be  a 
comparatively  innocent  personage  to  swear 
by  and  though  Longinus  in  his  discourse 
Ilepi  'Yij/ovs  has  commended  timely  oaths 
as  not  only  a  useful  but  sublime  figure  of 
speech,  yet  I  have  always  kept  my  lips  free 
from  that  abomination.  Odi  profanum  vul- 
gas  I  hate  your  swearing  and  hectoring  fel- 
lows. —  H.  W. 

1 1  hait  the  Site  of  a  feller  with  a  muskit  as 
I  du  pizn  But  their  is  fun  to  a  cornwallis  I 
aint  agoin'  to  deny  it.—  H.  B. 

X  he  means  N»t  quite  so  fur  I  guess.  —  M. 
B. 


THE  BIGLOIV  PAPERS. 


187 


There  's  sutthin*  gits  into  my  throat 
thet  makes  it  hard  to  swaller, 

It  comes  so  nateral  to  think  about  a 
hempen  collar ; 

It  's  glory,  —  but,  in  spite  o'  all  my  try- 
in'  to  git  callous, 

I  feel  a  kmd  o'  in  a  cart,  aridin'  to  the 
gallus. 

But  wen  it  comes  to  beitC  killed,  —  I 
tell  ye  I  felt  streaked 

The  fust  time  't  ever  1  found  out  wy 
baggonets  wuz  peaked  ; 

Here  's  how  it  wuz  :  I  started  out  to  go 
to  a  fandango, 

The  sentinul  he  ups  an'  sez,  "  Thet  's 
furder  'an  you  can  go." 

"None  o'  your  sarse,"  sez  I  ;  sez  he, 
"Stan' back!"  "  Aint  you  a  bus- 
ter?" 

Sez  I,  "  I  'm  up  to  all  thet  air,  I  guess 
I  've  ben  to  muster ; 

I  know  wy  sentinuls  air  sot ;  you  aint 
agoin'  to  eat  us  ; 

Caleb  haint  no  monopoly  to  court  the 
seenoreetas ; 

My  folks  to  hum  air  full  ez  good  ez 
hisn  be,  by  golly  !  " 

An'  so  ez  I  wuz  goin'  by,  not  thinkin' 
wut  would  folly, 

The  everlastin'  cus  he  stuck  his  one- 
pronged  pitchfork  in  me 

An'  made  a  hole  right  thru  my  close  ez 
ef  I  wuz  an  in'my. 

Wal,  it  beats  all  how  big  I  felt  hooraw- 

in'  in  ole  Funnel 
Wen  Mister  Bolles  he  gin  the  sword  to 

our  Leftenant  Cunnle, 
(It  's   Mister  Secondary  Bolles,*  thet 

writ  the  prize  peace  essay  ; 
Thet 's  why  he  did  n't  list  himself  along 

o'  us,  I  dessay,) 
An'  Rantoul,  tu,  talked  pooty  loud,  but 

don't  put  his  foot  in  it, 
Coz  human  life  's  so  sacred  thet  he  's 

principled  agin  it,  — 
Though  I  myself  can't  rightly  see  it  's 

any  wus  achokin'  on  'em, 
Than  puttin'  bullets  thru  their  lights,  or 

with  a  bagnet  pokin'  on  'em  ; 

*  the  ignerant  creeter  means  Sekketary  ; 
but  he  oilers  stuck  to  his  books  like  cobbler's 
wax  to  an  ile-stone.  —  H.  B. 


How  dreffle  slick  he  reeled  it  off  (lika 
Blitz  at  our  lyceum 

Ahaulin'  ribbinsfrom  his  chops  so  quick 
you  skeercely  see  'em), 

About  the  Anglo-Saxonrace(an'  saxons 
would  be  handy 

To  du  the  buryin'  down  here  upon  the 
Rio  Grandy), 

About  our  patriotic  pas  an'  our  star- 
spangled  banner, 

Our  country's  bird  alookin'  on  an'  sing- 
in'  out  hosanner, 

An' how  he  (Mister  B.  himself)  wuz 
happy  fer  Ameriky,  — 

I  felt,  ez  sister  Patience  sez,  a  leetle 
mite  histericky. 

I  felt,  I  swon,  ez  though  it  wuz  a  dref- 
fle kind  o'  privilege 

Atrampin'  round  thru  Boston  streets 
among  the  gutter's  drivelage  ; 

I  act'lly  thought  it  wuz  a  treat  to  hear 
a  little  drummin', 

An'  it  did  bonyfidy  seem  millanyum 
wuz  acomin' 

Wen  all  on  us  got  suits  (darned  like 
them  wore  in  the  state  prison) 

An'  every  feller  felt  ez  though  all  Mex- 
ico wuz  hisn.* 

This  'ere  's  about  the  meanest  place  a 

skunk  could  wal  diskiver 
(Saltillo's  Mexican,  I  b'lieve,  fer  wut 

we  call  Salt-river) ; 
The  sort  o'  trash  a  feller  gits  to  eat 

doos  beat  all  nater, 
I  'd  give  a  year's  pay  fer  a  smell  o'  one 

good  blue-nose  tater ; 
The  country  here   thet   Mister  Bolles 

declared  to  be  so  charmin' 
Throughout  is  swarmin'  with  the  most 

alarmin'  kind  o'  varmin'. 

He  talked  about  delishis  froots,  but 
then  it  wuz  a  wopper  all, 

The  holl  on  't  's  mud  an'  prickly  pears, 
with  here  an'  there  a  chapparal ; 

*  it  must  be  aloud  that  thare  's  a  streak  ot 
nater  in  lovin'  sho.  but  it  sartinly  is  1  of  the 
curusest  things  in  nater  to  see  a  rispecktable 
dri  goods  dealer  (deekon  off  a  chutch  may- 
by)  a  riggin"  himself  out  in  the  Weigh  thejr 
du  and  struttin'  round  in  the  Reign  aspflin' 
his  trowsis  and  makin'  wet  goods  of  himself. 
Ef  any  thin's  foolisher  and  moor  dicklus  than 
militerry  gloary  it  is  inilishy  gloary.  —  H.  B. 


/88 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


You  see  a  feller  peekin'  out,  an',  fust 

you  know,  a  lariat 
Is  round  your  throat  an'  you  a  copse,  'fore 

you  can  say,  ' '  Wut  air  ye  at  ?"  * 
You  never  see  seen  darned  gret  bugs  (it 

may  not  be  irrelevant 
To  say  I  've  seen  a  scarabceus  pilula- 

rius  t  big  ez  a  year  old  elephant), 
The  rigiment  come  up  one  day  in  time 

to  stop  a  red  bug 
From  runnin'  off  with  Cunnle  Wright, 

—  't  wuz  jest  a  common  cimex 
lectularius. 

One   night    I  started  up  on  eend  an' 

thought  I  wuz  to  hum  agin, 
I  heern  a  horn,  thinks  I  it 's  Sol  the 

fisherman  hez  come  agin, 
His  bellowses  is   sound   enough,  —  ez 

I  'm  a  livin'  creeter, 
I  felt  a  thing  go  thru  my  leg,  —  't  wuz 

nothin'  more  'n  a  skeeter  ! 
Then  there  's  the  yaller  fever,  tu,  they 

call  it  here  el  vomito,  — 
(Come,   thet   wun't   du,    you   landcrab 

there,  I  tell  ye  to  le'  go  my  toe  ! 
My  gracious !     it  's  a  scorpion   thet  's 

took  a  shine  to  play  with  't, 
1  darsn't  skeer  the  tarnal  thing  fer  fear 

he  'd  run  away  with  't.) 
Afore  I  come  away  from  hum  I  hed  a 

strong  persuasion 
Thet  Mexicans  worn't  human  beans,! 

—  an  ourang  outang  nation, 

A  sort  o'  folks  a  chap  could  kill  an' 

never  dream  on  't  arter, 
No  more  'n  a  feller  'd  dream  o'  pigs  thet 

he  hed  hed  to  slarter  ; 
I  'd  an  idee  thet  they  were  built  arter 

the  darkie  fashion  all, 
An'  kickin'  colored   folks   about,   you 

know,  's  a  kind  o'  national ; 

*  these  fellers  are  verry  proppilly  called 
Rank  Heroes,  and  the  more  tha  kill  the 
ranker  and  more  Herowick  tha  bekum.  — 
H.  B. 

t  it  wuz  "tumblebug"  as  he  Writ  it,  but 
the  parson  put  the  Latten  instul.  i  sed  tother 
maid  better  meeter,  but  he  said  tha  was  ed- 
dykated  peepl  to  Boston  and  tha  would  n't 
stan'  it  no  how.  idnow  as  tha  wood  and  id- 
now  as  tha  wood. — -H.  B. 

J  he  means  human  beins,  that 's  wut  he 
means,  i  spose  he  kinder  thought  tha  wuz 
human  beans  ware  the  Xisle  Poles  comes 
from.  —  H.  B. 


But  wen  I  jined  I  wornt  so  wise  ez  thet 

air  queen  o'  Sheby, 
Fer,   come   to  look  at  'em,  they  aint 

much  dtff'rent  from  wut  we  be, 
An'  here  we  air  ascrougin'  'em  out  o' 

thir  own  dominions, 
Ashelterin'   'em,   ez  Caleb  sez,  under 

our  eagle's  pinions, 
Wich  means  to  take  a  feller  up  jest  by 

the  slack  o'  's  trowsis 
An'  walk  him  Spanish  clean  right  out 

o'  all  his  homes  an'  houses; 
Wal,  it  doos  seem  a  curus  way,  but  then 

hooraw  fer  Jackson  ! 
It  must  be  right,  fer  Caleb  sez  it 's  reg'- 

lar  Anglo-saxon. 
The  Mex'cans  don't  fight  fair,  they  say, 

they  piz'n  all  the  water, 
An'  du  amazin'  lots  o'  things  thet  is  n't 

wut  they  ough'  to ; 
Bern*  they  haint  no  lead,  they  make 

their  bullets  out  o'  copper 
An'  shoot  the  darned  things  at  us,  tu, 

wich  Caleb  sez  aint  proper; 
He  sez  they  'd  ough'  to  stan'  right  up 

an'  let  us  pop  'em  fairly 
(Guess  wen  he  ketches  'em  at  thet  he  'It 

hev  to  git  up  airly), 
Thet  our  nation  's  bigger  'n  theirn  an* 

so  its  rights  air  bigger, 
An'  thet  it 's  all  to  make  'em  free  thet 

we  air  pullin'  trigger, 
Thet  Anglo  Saxondom's  idee 's  abreak- 

in'  'em  to  pieces, 
An'  thet  idee  's  thet  every  man  doos 

jest  wut  he  damn  pleases ; 
Ef  I  don't  make  his  meanin'  clear,  per- 
haps in  some  respex  I  can, 
I  know  thet  "every  man"  don't  mean 

a  nigger  or  a  Mexican  ; 
An'  there  's  another  thing  I  know,  an 

thet  is,  ef  these  creeturs, 
Thet  stick   an  Anglosaxon  mask  onto 

State-prison  feeturs, 
Should  come  to  Jaalam  Centre  fer  to 

argify  an'  spout  on  't, 
The  gals  'ould  count  the  silver  spoons 

the  minnit  they  cleared  out  on  't. 

This  goin'  ware  glory  waits  ye  haini 

one  agreeable  feetur, 
An'  ef  it  worn't  fer  wakin'  snakes,  I  'd 

home  agin  short  meter  ; 
O,  wouldn't  I  be  off,  quick  time,  eft 

worn't  thet  I  wuz  sartin 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


180 


Thef  'd  lit  the  daylight  into  me  to  pay 

me  fer  desartin  I 
I  don't  approve  o'  tellin'  tales,  but  jest 

to  you  I  may  state 
Our  ossifers  aint   wut   they  wuz  afore 

they  left  the  Bay-state  ; 
Then  it  wuz  "  Mister  Sawin,  sir,  you  're 

middlin'  well  now,  be  ye? 
Step  up  an*  take  a  nipper,  sir;    I'm 

dreffle  glad  to  see  ye  "  ; 
But  now  it  's   "  Ware  's   my  eppylet  ? 

here,  Sawin,  step  an'  fetch  it  I 
An'  mind  your  eye,  be  thund'rin'  spry, 

or,  damn  ye,  you  shall  ketch  it  !  " 
Wal,  ez  the  Doctor  sez,  some  pork  will 

bile  so,  but  by  mighty, 
Ef  I  hed  some  on  'em  to  hum,  I  'd  give 

'em  linkum  vity, 
I  'd  play  the  rogue's   march  on  their 

hides  an'  other  music  follerin'  — 
Rut  I  must  close  my  letter  here,  fer  one 

on  'em  's  ahollerin', 
These  Anglosaxon  ossifers,  —  wal,  taint 

no  use  ajawin', 
I  *m  safe  enlisted  fer  the  war, 
Yourn, 

BIRDOFREDOM    SAWIN. 


[Those  have  not  been  wanting  (as,  indeed, 
when  hath  Satan  been  to  seek  for  attor- 
neys?) who  have  maintained  that  our  late  in- 
road upon  Mexico  was  undertaken,  not  so 
much  for  the  avenging  of  any  national  quar- 
rel, as  for  the  spreading  of  free  institutions 
and  of  Protestantism.  Capita  vix  ditabus 
Anticyris  medenda  /  Verily  I  admire  that 
no  pious  sergeant  among  these  new  Cru- 
saders beheld  Martin  Luther  riding  at  the 
front  of  the  host  upon  a  tamed  pontifical 
bull,  as,  in  that  former  invasion  of  Mexico, 
the  zealous  Gomara  {spawn  though  he  were 
of  the  Scarlet  Woman)  was  favored  with  a 
vision  of  St.  James  of  Coinpostella,  skewer- 
ing the  infidels  upon  his  apostolical  lance. 
We  read,  also,  that  Richard  of  the  lion  heart, 
having  gone  to  Palestine  on  a  similar  errand 
of  mercy,  was  divinely  encouraged  to  cut  the 
throats  of  such  Paynims  as  refused  to  swallow 
the  bread  of  life  (doubtless  that  they  might 
be  thereafter  incapacitated  for  swallowing 
the  filthy  gobbets  of  Mahound)  by  angels 
of  heaven,  who  cried  to  the  king  and  his 
knights,  — Seigneurs,  tuez  !  titez  !  providen- 
tially using  the  French  tongue,  as  being  the 
only  one  understood  by  their  auditors.  This 
would  argue  for  the  pantoglottism  of  these 
celestial  intelligences,  while,  on  the  other 
Land,  the  DevU,  teste  Cotton  Mather,  is  un- 


versed in  certain  of  the  Indian  dialects.  Yet 
must  he  be  a  semeiologUt  the  most  expert, 
making  himself  intelligible  to  every  people 
and  kindred  by  signs  ;  no  other  discourse 
indeed,  being  needful,  than  such  as  the 
mackerel-lisher  holds  with  his  finned  quarry, 
who,  if  other  bait  be  wanting,  can  by  a  bare 
bit  of  white  rag  at  the  end  of  a  string  capti- 
vate those  foolish  fishes.  Such  piscatorial 
oratory  is  Satan  cunning  in.  Before  one  he 
trails  a  hat  and  feather,  or  a  bare  feather 
without  a  hat  ;  before  another,  a  Presidential 
chair  or  a  tidewaiter's  stool,  or  a  pulpit  in 
the  city,  no  matter  what.  To  us,  dangling 
there  over  our  heads,  they  seem  junkets 
dropped  out  of  the  seventh  heaven,  sops 
dipped  in  nectar,  but,  once  in  our  mouths, 
they  are  all  one,  bits  of  fuzzy  cotton. 

This,  however,  by  the  way.  It  is  time  now 
revocare gradum.  While  so  many  miracles 
of  this  sort,  vouched  by  eye-witnesses,  have 
encouraged  the  arms  of  Papists,  not  to  speak 
of  EchetTaeus  at  Marathon  and  those  Dioscnrt 
(whom  we  must  conclude  imps  of  the  pit)  who 
sundry  times  captained  the  pagan  Roman 
soldiery,  it  is  strange  that  our  first  American 
crusade  was  not  in  some  such  wise  also  sig- 
nalized. Yet  it  is  said  that  the  Lord  hath 
manifestly  prospered  our  armies.  This  opens 
the  question,  whether,  when  our  hands  are 
strengthened  to  make  great  slaughter  of  our 
enemies,  it  be  absolutely  and  demonstratively 
certain  that  this  might  is  added  to  us  from 
above,  or  whether  some  Potentate  from  an 
opposite  quarter  may  not  have  a  finger  in  it, 
as  there  are  few  pies  into  which  his  meddling 
digits  are  not  thrust.  Would  the  Sanctifier 
and  Setter-apart  of  the  seventh  day  have  as- 
sisted in  a  victory  gained  on  the  Sabbath,  as 
was  one  in  the  late  war?  Or  has  that  day  be- 
come less  an  object  of  his  especial  care  since 
the  year  1697,  when  so  manifest  a  providence 
occurred  to  Mr.  William  Trowbridge,  in  an- 
swer to  whose  prayers,  when  he  and  all  on 
shipboard  with  him  were  starving,  a  dolphin 
was  sent  daily,  "  which  was  enough  to  serve 
'em  ;  only  on  Saturdays  they  still  catched  a 
couple,  and  on  the  Lord's  Days  they  could 
catch  none  at  all"?  Haply  they  might  have 
been  permitted,  by  way  of  mortification,  to 
take  some  few  sculpins  (those  banes  of  the 
salt-water  angler),  which  unseemly  fish  would, 
moreover,  have  conveyed  to  them  a  sym- 
bolical reproof  for  their  breach  of  the  day, 
being  known  in  the  rude  dialect  of  our  mari- 
ners as  Cape  Cod  Clergymen. 

It  has  been  a  refreshment  to  many  nice 
consciences  to  know  that  our  Chief  Magis- 
trate would  not  regard  with  eyes  of  approval 
the  (by  many  esteemed)  sinful  pastime  of 
dancing,  and  I  own  myself  to  be  so  far  of 
that  mind,  that  I  could  not  but  set  my  face 
against  this  Mexican  Polka,  though  danced 
to  the  Presidential  piping  with  a  Gubernato- 
rial second.  If  ever  the  country  should  be 
seized  with  another  such  mania  de  propa- 
ganda Jidt,  I  think  it  would  be  wise  to  hU 


19° 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


our  bombshells  with  alternate  copies  of  the 
Cambridge  Platform  and  the  Thirty-nine  Ar- 
ticles, which  would  produce  a  mixture  of  the 
highest  explosive  power,  and  to  wrap  every 
one  of  our  cannon-balls  in  a  leaf  of  the  New 
Testament,  the  reading  of  which  is  denied  to 
those  who  sit  in  the  darkness  of  Popery. 
Those  iron  evangelists  would  thus  be  able  to 
disseminate  vital  religion  and  Gospel  truth  in 
quarters  inaccessible  to  the  ordinary  mission- 
ary. I  have  seen  lads,  uniinpregnate  with 
the  more  sublimated  punctiliousness  of  Wal- 
ton, secure  pickerel,  taking  their  unwary 
siesta  beneath  the  lily-pads  too  nigli  the 
surface,  with  a  gun  and  small  shot.  Why 
not,  then,  since  gunpowder  was  unknown  in 
the  time  of  the  Apostles  (not  to  enter  here 
upon  the  question  whether  it  were  discov- 
ered before  that  period  by  the  Chinese), 
suit  our  metaphor  to  the  age  in  which  we 
live,  and  say  shooters  as  well  as  Jishers  of 
men? 

I  do  much  fear  that  we  shall  be  seized  now 
and  then  with  a  Protestant  fervor,  as  long  as 
we  have  neighbor  Naboths  whose  wallowtngs 
in  Papistical  mire  excite  our  horror  in  exact 
proportion  to  the  size  and  desirableness  of 
their  vineyards.  Yet  I  rejoice  that  some 
earnest  Protestants  have  been  made  by  this 
war,  —  I  mean  those  who  protested  against 
it.  Fewer  they  were  than  I  could  wish,  for 
one  might  imagine  America  to  have  been 
colonized  by  a  tribe  of  those  nondescript 
African  animals  the  Aye-Ayes,  so  difficult  a 
word  is  No  to  us  all.  There  is  some  malfor- 
mation or  defect  of  the  vocal  organs,  which 
either  prevents  our  uttering  it  at  all,  or  gives 
it  so  thick  a  pronunciation  as  to  be  unintel- 
ligible. A  mouth  filled  with  the  national  pud- 
ding, or  watering  in  expectation  thereof,  is 
wholly  incompetent  to  this  refractory  mono- 
syllable. An  abject  and  herpetic  Public 
Opinion  is  the  Pope,  the  Anti-Christ,  for  us 
to  protest  against  e  corde  cordiutn.  And  by 
what  College  of  Cardinals  is  this  our  God's- 
vicar,  our  binder  and  looser,  elected?  Very 
like,  by  the  sacred  conclave  of  Tag,  Rag, 
and  Bobtail,  in  the  gracious  atmosphere  of 
the  grog-shop.  Yet  it  is  of  this  that  we  must 
all  be  puppets.  This  thumps  the  pulpit- 
cushion,  this  guides  the  editor's  pen,  this 
wags  the  senators  tongue.  This  decides 
what  Scriptures  are  canonical,  and  shuffles 
Christ  away  into  the  Apocrypha.  Accord- 
ing to  that  sentence  fathered  upon  Solon, 
OiiruJ  8r)/j.6crioi>  kclkov  epxtTai  oi/caS' 
t/cdoru).  This  unclean  spirit  is  skilful  to 
assume'  various  shapes.  I  have  known  it  to 
enter  my  own  study  and  nudge  my  elbow  of 
a  Saturday,  under  the  semblance  of  a  wealthy 
member  of  my  congregation.  It  were  a  great 
blessing,  if  every  particular  of  what  in  the 
sum  we  call  popular  sentiment  could  carry 
about  the  name  of  its  manufacturer  stamped 
legibly  upon  it.  I  gave  a  stab  under  the  fifth 
rib  to  that  pestilent  fallacy,  —  "Our  country, 
right  or  wrong,"  —  by  tracing  its  original  to  a 


speech  of  Ensign  Cilley  at  a  dinner  of  <h< 
Bungtown  Fencibles.  —  H.  W..I 


No.  III. 


WHAT  MR.  ROBINSON  THINKS. 

[A  FEW  remarks  on  the  following  verses 
will  not  be  out  of  place.  The  satire  in  them 
was  not  meant  to  have  any  personal,  but 
only  a  general,  application.  Of  the  gentle- 
man upon  whose  letter  they  were  intended 
as  a  commentary  Mr.  Biglow  had  never 
heard,  till  he  saw  the  letter  itself.  The  po- 
sition of  the  satirist  is  oftentimes  one  which 
he  would  not  have  chosen,  had  the  election 
been  left  to  himself.  In  attacking  bad  prin- 
ciples, he  is  obliged  to  select  some  individual 
who  has  made  himself  their  exponent,  and 
in  whom  they  are  impersonate,  to  the  end 
that  what  he  says  may  not,  through  ambigu- 
ity, be  dissipated  tenues  in  auras,  tor 
what  says  Seneca?  Longitm.  iter  per  pm- 
cepta,  breve  et  ejfficace  per  exempla.  A  bad 
principle  is  comparatively  harmless  while  it 
continues  to  be  an  abstraction,  nor  can  the 
general  mind  comprehend  it  fully  till  it  is 
printed  in  that  large  type  which  all  men  can 
read  at  sight,  namely,  the  life  and  character, 
the  sayings  and  doings,  of  particular  persons. 
It  is  one  of  the  cunmngest  fetches  of  Satan, 
that  he  never  exposes  nimself  directly  to  our 
arrows,  but,  still  dodging  behind  this  neigh- 
bor or  that  acquaintance,  compels  us  to 
wound  him  through  them,  if  at  all.  He  holds 
our  affections  as  hostages,  the  while  he 
patches  up  a  truce  with  our  conscience. 

Meanwhile,  let  us  not  forget  that  the  aim 
of  the  true  satirist  is  not  to  be  severe  upon 
persons,  but  only  upon  falsehood,  and,  as 
Truth  and  Falsehood  start  from  the  same 
point,  and  sometimes  even  go  along  together 
for  a  little  way,  his  business  is  to  follow  the 
path  of  the  latter  after  it  diverges,  and  to 
show  her  floundering  in  the  bog  at  the  end 
of  it.  Truth  is  quite  beyond  the  reach  of 
satire.  There  is  so  brave  a  simplicity  in  her, 
that  she  can  no  more  be  made  ridiculous 
than  an  oak  or  a  pine.  The  danger  of  the 
satirist  is,  that  continual  use  may  deaden  his 
sensibility  to  the  force  of  language.  He  be- 
comes more  and  more  liable  to  strike  harder 
than  he  knows  or  intends.  He  may  be  care- 
ful to  put  on  his  boxing-gloves,  and  yet  for. 
get,  that,  the  older  they  grow,  the  more 
plainly  may  the  knuckles  inside  be  felt. 
Moreover,  in  the  heat  of  contest,  the  eye  is 
insensibly  drawn  to  the  crown  of  victory, 
whose  tawdry  tinsel  glitters  through  that 
dust  of  the  ring  which  obscures  Truth's 
wreath  of  simple  leaves.  I  have  sometimes 
thought  that  my  young  friend,  Mr.  Biglow, 
needed  a  monitory  hand  laid  on  his  arm,  — 
aliquid  sitfftatninandus  erut.     1  have  never 


THE  BIG  LOW  PAPERS. 


191 


thought  it  pood  husbandry  to  water  the 
tender  plants  of  reform  with  aquafortis,  yet, 
where  so  much  is  to  do  in  the  heds,  he  were 
a  sony  gardener  who  should  wage  a  whole 
day's  war  with  an  iron  scuffle  on  those  ill 
weeds  that  make  the  garden-walks  of  life 
unsightly,  when  a  sprinkle  of  Attic  salt  will 
wither  them  up.  Est ars  etiam  maUdicendi , 
says  Scaliger,  and  truly  it  is  a  hard  thing  to 
say  where  the  graceful  gentleness  of  the 
lamb  merges  in  downright  sheepishness.  We 
may  conclude  with  worthy  and  wise_  Dr. 
l-'uller,  that  "one  may  be  a  lamb  in  private 
wrongs,  but  in  hearing  general  affronts  to 
goodness  they  are  asses  wnich  are  not  lions." 
—  H.  W.] 

Guvener  B.  is  a  sensible  man  : 

He  stays  to  his  home  an'  looks  arter 
his  folks ; 
He  draws  his  furrer  ez  straight  ez  he  can, 
Au'  into  nobody's  tater-patch  pokes ; 
But  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  he  wunt  vote  fer  Guvener  B. 

My  !  aint  it  terrible  ?     Wut  shall  we  du? 
We  can't  never  choose  him  o'  course, 
—  thet 's  flat; 
Guess  we  shall   hev  to  come  round, 
(don't  you  ?) 
An'  go  in  fer  thunder  an'   guns,  an' 
all  that  ; 
Fer  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  he  wunt  vote  fer  Guvener  B. 

Gineral  C.  is  a  dreffle  smart  man  : 
He  's  ben  on  all  sides  thet  give  places 
or  pelf ; 
But  consistency  still  wuz  a  part  of  his 
plan,  — 
He  's  ben   true  to  one  party,  —  an' 
thet  is  himself ;  — 
So  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  he  shall  vote  fer  Gineral  C. 

Gineral  C.  he  goes  in  fer  the  war  ; 
He  don't  vally  principle  more  'n  an 
old  cud  ; 
Wut  did  God  make  us  raytional  cree- 
turs  fer, 
But  glory  an'  gunpowder,  plunder  an' 
blood? 
So  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  he  shall  vote  far  Gineral  C. 


We  were  gittin'  on   nicely  up  here  to 
our  village, 
With  good  old  idees  o'   wut  's   right 
an'  wut  aint, 
We  kind  o'  thought    Christ  went  agin 
war  an'  pillage, 
An'  thet   eppyletts   worn't   tht  best 
mark  of  a  saint ; 
But  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez   this  kind   o'   thing  's  an  ex- 
ploded idee. 

The  side  of  our  country  must  oilers  be 
took, 
An'  Presidunt  Polk,  you  know,  he  is 
our  country. 
An'  the  angel  thet  writes  all  our  sins  in 
a  book 
Puts  the  debit  to  him,  an'  to  us  the 
per  contry  ; 
An'  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  this  is  his  view  o'  the  thing  to 
a  T. 

Parson  Wilbur  he  calls  all  these  argi> 
munts  lies; 
Sez  they  're  nothin'  on  airth  but  jest 
fee,faw,fnm  : 
An'  thet  all  this  big  talk  of  our  destinies 
Is  half  on  it  ign'ance,  an'  t'other  half 
rum  ; 
But  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  it  aint  no  sech   thing  ;  an',  of 
course,  so  must  we. 

Parson  Wilbur  sez  he  never  heerd  in 
his  life 
Thet  th'  Apostles  rigged  out  in  their 
swaller-tail  coats, 
An'  marched  round  in  front  of  a  drum 
an'  a  fife, 
To  git  some  on  'em  office,  an'   some 
on  'em  votes ; 
But  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  they  did  n't  know  everythin' 
down  in  Judee. 

Wal,  it 's  a  marcy  we  've  gut  folks  to 
tell  us 
The  rights  an'  the   wrongs  o'  these 
matters,  I  vow,  — 


193 


THE  BIGLOIV  PAPERS. 


God  sends  country  lawyers,  an'  other 

wise  fellers. 
To   start  the   world's  team  wen  it  gi's 
in  a  slough ; 
Fer  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  the  world  '11  go  right,  ef  he  hollers 
out  Gee  ! 

[The  attentive  reader  will  doubtless  have 
perceived  in  the  foregoing  poem  an  allusion 
to  that  pernicious  sentiment,  — "  Our  country, 
right  or  wrong."  It  is  an  abuse  of  language 
to  call  a  certain  portion  of  land,  much  more, 
certain  personages,  elevated  for  the  time 
being  to  high  station,  our  country.  I  would 
not  sever  nor  loosen  a  single  one  of  those  ties 
by  which  we  are  united  to  the  spot  of  our 
birth,  nor  minish  by  a  tittle  the  respect  due 
to  the  Magistrate.  I  love  our  own  Bay  State 
too  well  to  do  the  one,  and  as  for  the  other,  I 
have  myself  for  nigh  forty  years  exercised, 
however  unworthily,  the  function  of  Justice 
of  the  Peace,  having  been  called  thereto  by 
the  unsolicited  kindness  of  that  most  excellent 
man  and  upright  patriot,  Caleb  Strong.  Pa- 
trice f umus  igne  alieno  luculentior  is  best 
qualified  with  this,  —  Ubi  libertas,  ibi  patria. 
We  are  inhabitants  of  two  worlds,  and  owe 
a  double,  but  not  a  divided  allegiance.  In 
virtue  of  our  clay,  this  little  ball  of  earth  ex- 
acts a  certain  loyalty  of  us,  while,  in  our  ca- 
pacity as  spirits,  we  are  admitted  citizens  of 
an  invisible  and  holier  fatherland.  There  is 
a  patriotism  of  the  soul  whose  claim  absolves 
us  from  our  other  and  terrene  fealty.  Our 
true  country  is  that  ideal  realm  which  we 
represent  to  ourselves  under  the  names  of 
religion,  duty,  and  the  like.  Our  terrestrial 
organizations  are  but  far-off  approaches  to 
so  fair  a  model,  and  all  they  are  verily  traitors 
who  resist  not  any  attempt  to  divert  them 
from  this  their  original  intendment.  When, 
therefore,  one  would  have  us  to  fling  up  our 
caps  and  shout  with  the  multitude,  —  "Our 
country,  however  bounded  !"  he  demands  of 
us  that  we  sacrifice  the  larger  to  the  less,  the 
higher  to  the  lower,  and  that  we  yield  to  the 
imaginary  claims  of  a  few  acres  of  soil  our 
duty  and  privilege  as  liegemen  of  Truth.  Our 
true  country  is  bounded  on  the  north  and  the 
south,  on  the  east  and  the  west,  by  Justice, 
and  when  she  oversteps  that  invisible  boun- 
dary-line by  so  much  as  a  hair's-breadth,  she 
ceases  to  be  our  mother,  and  chooses  rather 
to  be  looked  upon  quasi  noverca.  That  is  a 
hard  choice  when  our  earthly  love  of  country 
calls  upon  us  to  tread  one  path  and  our  duty 
points  us  to  another.  We  must  make  as 
noble  and  becoming  an  election  as  did  Pe- 
nelope between  Icarius  and  Ulysses.  Veiling 
our  faces,  we  must  take  silently  the  hand  of 
Duty  to  follow  her. 

Shortly  after  the  publication  of  the  fore- 
going poem,  there  appeared  some  comments 


upon  it  in  one  of  the  public  prints  which 
seemed  to  call  for  animadversion.  I  accord' 
ingly  addressed  to  Mr.  Buckingham,  of  the 
Boston  Courier,  the  following  letter. 

Jaala.M,  November  4,  1847. 

"  To  tlie  Editor  of  the  Courier  : 

"  Respected  Sir,  —Calling  at  the  post- 
office  this  morning,  our  worthy  and  efficient 
postmaster  offered  for  my  perusal  a  para- 
graph in  the  Boston  Morning  Post  of  the  3d 
instant,  wherein  certain  effusions  of  the  pas- 
toral muse  are  attributed  to  the  pen  of  Mr. 
James  Russell  Lowell.  For  aught  I  know  or 
can  affirm  to  the  contrary,  this  Mr.  Lowell 
may  be  a  very  deserving  person  and  a  youth 
of  parts  (though  I  have  seen  verses  of  his 
which  I  could  never  rightly  understand) ;  and 
if  he  be  such,  he,  I  am  certain,  as  well  as  I, 
would  be  free  from  any  proclivity  to  appro- 
priate to  himself  whatever  of  credit  (or  dis- 
credit) may  honestly  belong  to  another.  I 
am  confident,  that,  in  penning  these  few  lines, 
I  am  only  forestalling  a  disclaimer  from  that 
young  gentleman,  whose  silence  hitherto, 
when  rumor  pointed  to  himward,  has  excited 
in  iny  bosom  mingled  emotions  of  sorrow  and 
surprise.  Well  may  my  young  parisluoner, 
Mr.  Biglow,  exclaim  with  the  poet, 

1  Sic  vos  non  vobis,'  &c. ; 

though,  in  saying  this,  I  would  not  convey 
the  impression  that  he  is  a  proficient  in  the 
Latin  tongue, —  the  tongue,  I  might  add,  of 
a  Horace  and  a  Tully. 

"  Mr.  B.  does  not  employ  his  pen,  I  can 
safely  say,  for  any  lucre  of  worldly  gain,  or  to 
be  exalted  by  the  carnal  plaudits  of  men, 
digito  monstrari,  Sec.  He  does  not  wait 
upon  Providence  for  mercies,  and  in  his  heart 
mean  mcrces.  But  I  should  esteem  myself 
as  verily  deficient  in  my  duty  (who  am  his 
friend  and  in  some  unworthy  sort  his  spiritual 
fidus  Achates,  &c),  if  I  did  not  step  forward 
to  claim  for  him  whatever  measure  of  ap- 
plause might  be  assigned  to  him  by  the  ju- 
dicious. 

"  If  this  were  a  fitting  occasion,  I  might 
venture  here  a  brief  dissertation  touching  the 
manner  and  kind  of  my  young  friend's  poetry. 
But  I  dubitate  whether  this  abstruser  sort  of 
speculation  (though  enlivened  by  some  ap- 
posite instances  from  Aristophanes)  would 
sufficiently  interest  your  oppidan  readers.  As 
regards  their  satirical  tone,  and  their  plain- 
ness of  speech,  I  will  only  say,  that,  in  my 
pastoral  experience,  I  have  found  that  the 
Arch-Enemy  loves  nothing  better  than  to  be 
treated  as  a  religious,  moral,  and  intellectual 
being,  and  that  there  is  no  apajre  Sathanas  ! 
so  potent  as  ridicule.  But  it  is  a  kind  of 
weapon  that  must  have  a  button  of  good- 
nature on  the  point  of  it. 

"  The  productions  of  Mr.  B.  have  been 
stigmatized  in  some  quarters  as  unpatrtom  ; 
but  I  can  vouch  that  he  loves  his  native  =uU 


THE  B I  GLOW  PAPERS. 


193 


with  that  hearty,  though  discriminating,  at- 
tachment which  springs  from  an  intimate 
social  intercourse  of  many  years' standing. 
In  tiic  ploughing  season,  no  one  has  a  deeper 
share  in  the  well-being  of  the  country  than 
he.  If  Dean  Swift  were  right  in  saying  that 
he  who  makes  two  blades  of  grass  grow 
where  one  grew  before  confers  a  greater 
benefit  on  the  state  than  he  who  taketh  a 
city,  Mr.  B.  might  exhibit  a  fairer  claim  to 
the  Presidency  than  General  Scott  himself. 
I  think  that  some  of  those  disinterested  lovers 
of  the  hard-handed  democracy,  whose  fingers 
have  never  touched  anything  rougher  than 
the  dollars  of  our  common  country,  would 
hesitate  to  compare  palms  with  him.  It  would 
do  your  heart  good,  respected  Sir,  to  see 
that  young  man  mow.  He  cuts  a  cleaner  and 
wider  swarth  than  any  in  this  town. 

"  But  it  is  time  for  me  to  be  at  my  Post.  It 
is  very  clear  that  my  young  friend's  shot  has 
struck  the  lintel,  for  the  Post  is  shaken  (Amos 
ix.  1).  The  editor  of  that  paper  is  a  strenu- 
ous advocate  of  the  Mexican  war,  and  a 
colonel,  as  I  am  given  to  understand.  I  pre- 
sume, that,  being  necessarily  absent  in  Mex- 
ico, he  has  left  his  journal  in  some  less  judi- 
cious hands.  At  any  rate,  the  Post  has  been 
too  swift  on  this  occasion.  It  could  hardly 
have  cited  a  more  incontrovertible  line  from 
any  poem  than  that  which  it  has  selected  for 
animadversion,  namely,  — 

*  We  kind  o'  thought  Christ  went  agin  war  an' 
pillage.' 

"If  the  Post  maintains  the  converse  of 
this  proposition,  it  can  hardly  be  considered 
as  a  safe  guide-post  for  the  moral  and  re- 
ligious portions  of  its  party,  however  many 
other  excellent  qualities  of  a  post  it  may  be 
blessed  with.  There  is  a  sign  in  London  on 
which  is  painted,  — '  The  Green  Man.'  It 
would  do  very  well  as  a  portrait  of  any  in- 
dividual who  would  support  so  unscriptural  a 
thesis.  As  regards  the  language  of  the  line 
in  question,  I  am  bold  to  say  that  He  who 
readeth  the  hearts  of  men  will  not  account 
any  dialect  unseemly  which  conveys  a  sound 
and  pious  sentiment.  I  could  wish  that  such 
sentiments  were  more  common,  however  un- 
couthly  expressed.  Saint  Ambrose  affirms, 
that  Veritas  a  quomnquc  {why  not,  then, 
guomodocunque ?)  dicatur,  a  spiritu  sancto 
est.  Digest  also  this  of  Baxter :  '  The 
plainest  words  are  the  most  profitable  oratory 
m  the  weightiest  matters.' 

"  When  the  paragraph  in  question  was 
shown  to  Mr.  Biglow,  the  only  part  of  it 
which  seemed  to  give  him  any  dissatisfaction 
was  that  which  classed  him  with  the  Whig 
party.  He  says,  that,  if  resolutions  are  a 
nourishing  kind  of  diet,  that  party  must  be  in 
a  very  hearty  and  flourishing  condition  ;  for 
that  they  have  quietly  eaten  more  good  ones 
of  their  own  baking  than  he  could  have  con- 
ceived to  be  possible  without  repletion.  He 
has  been  for  some  years  past  (I  regret  to  say) 


an^ardent  opponent  of  those  sound  doctrines 
of  protective  policy  which  form  so  prominent 
a  portion  of  the  creed  of  that  party.  I  con- 
fess, that,  in  some  discussions  which  I  have 
had  with  him  on  this  point  in  my  study,  he 
has  displayed  a  vein  of  obstinacy  which  1  had 
not  hitherto  detected  in  his  composition.  He 
is  also  {horresco  referens)  infected  in  no  small 
measure  with  the  peculiar  notions  of  a  print 
called  the  Liberator,  whose  heresies  I  take 
every  proper  opportunity  of  combating,  and 
of  which,  I  thank  God,  I  have  never  read  a 
single  line. 

"  I  did  not  see  Mr.  B.'s  verses  until  they 
appeared  in  print,  and  there  is  certainly  one 
thing  in  them  which  I  consider  highly  im- 
proper. 1  allude  to  the  personal  references 
to  myself  by  name.  To  confer  notoriety  on 
an  humble  individual  who  is  laboring  quietly 
in  his  vocation,  and  who  keeps  his  cloth  as 
free  as  he  can  from  the  dust  of  the  political 
arena  (though  v<z  tnihi  si  non  evangeliza- 
■z/ero),  is  no  doubt  an  indecorum.  The  senti- 
ments which  he  attributes  to  me  I  will  not 
deny  to  be  mine.  They  were  embodied, 
though  in  a  different  form,  in  a  discourse 
preached  upon  the  last  day  of  public  fasting, 
and  were  acceptable  to  my  entire  people  (of 
whatever  political  views),  except  the  post- 
master, who  dissented  ex  officio.  I  observe 
that  you  sometimes  devote  a  portion  of  your 
paper  to  a  religious  summary.  I  should  be 
well  pleased  to  furnish  a  copy  of  my  dis- 
course for  insertion  in  this  department  of 
your  instructive  journal.  By  omitting  the 
advertisements,  it  might  easily  be  got  within 
the  limits  of  a  single  number,  and  I  venture 
to  insure  you  the  sale  of  some  scores  of  cop- 
ies in  this  town.  I  will  cheerfully  render  my- 
self responsible  for  ten.  It  might  possibly  be 
advantageous  to  issue  it  as  an  extra.  But 
perhapsyou  will  not  esteem  it  an  object,  and 
I  will  not  press  it.  My  offer  does  not  spring 
from  any  weak  desire  of  seeing  my  name  in 
print ;  for  I  can  enjoy  this  satisfaction  at  any 
time  by  turning  to  the  Triennial  Catalogue 
of  the  University,  where  it  also  possesses 
that  added  emphasis  of  Italics  with  which 
those  of  my  calling  are  distinguished. 

"  I  would  simply  add,  that  I  continue  to  fit 
ingenuous  youth  for  college,  and  that  I  have 
two  spacious  and  airy  sleeping  apartments  at 
this  moment  unoccupied.  higenuas  didi- 
cisse,  &c.  Terms,  which  vary  according  to 
the  circumstances  of  the  parents,  may  be 
known  on  application  to  me  by  letter,  post- 
paid. In  all  cases  the  lad  will  be  expected  to 
fetch  his  own  towels.  This  rule,  Mrs.  W.  de- 
sires me  to  add,  has  no  exceptions. 

"Respectfully,  your  obedient  servant, 
"HOMER    WILBUR,    A.M. 

"P.  S.  Perhaps  the  last  paragraph  may 
look  like  an  attempt  to  obtain  the  insertion 
of  my  circular  gratuitously.  If  it  should  ap- 
pear to  you  in  that  light,  I  desire  that  you 
would  erase  it,  or  charge  for  it  at  the  usual 


194 


THE   BIG  LOW  PAPERS. 


(ates,  and  deduct  the  amount  from  the  pro- 
ceeds in  your  hands  from  the  sale  of  my  dis- 
course, when  it  shall  be  printed.  My  circu- 
lar is  much  longer  and  more  explicit,  and  will 
be  forwarded  without  charge  to  any  who  may 
desire  it.  It  has  been  very  neatly  executed 
on  a  letter  sheet,  by  a  very  deserving  printer, 
who  attends  upon  my  ministry,  and  is  a  cred- 
itable specimen  of  the  typographic  art.  I 
have  one  hung  over  my  mantel-piece  in  a  neat 
frame,  where  it  makes  a  beautiful  and  appro- 
priate ornament,  and  balances  the  profile  of 
Mrs.  W.,  cut  with  her  toes  by  the  young  lady 
born  without  arms.  H.  W." 

I  have  in  the  foregoing  letter  mentioned 
General  Scott  in  connection  with  the  Presi- 
dency, because  I  have  been  given  to  under- 
stand that  he  has  blown  to  pieces  and  other- 
wise caused  to  be  destroyed  more  Mexicans 
than  any  other  commander.  His  claim  would 
therefore  be  deservedly  considered  the 
strongest.  Until  accurate  returns  of  the 
Mexicans  killed,  wounded,  and  maimed  be 
obtained,  it  will  be  difficult  to  settle  these  nice 
points  of  precedence.  Should  it  prove  that 
any  other  officer  lias  been  more  meritorious 
and  destructive  than  General  S.,  and  has 
thereby  rendered  himself  more  worthy  of  the 
confidence  and  support  of  the  conservative 
portion  of  our  community,  I  shall  cheerfully 
insert  his  name,  instead  of  that  of  General 
S.,  in  a  future  edition.  It  may  be  thought, 
likewise,  that  General  S  has  invalidated  his 
claims  by  too  much  attention  to  the  decen- 
cies of  apparel,  and  the  habits  belonging  to 
a  gentleman.  These  abstruser  points  of 
statesmanship  are  beyond  my  scope.  '  I  won- 
der not  that  successful  military  achievement 
should  attract  the  admiration  of  the  multi- 
tude. Rather  do  I  rejoice  with  wonder  to 
behold  how  rapidly  this  sentiment  is  losing  its 
hold  upon  the  popular  mind.  It  is  related  of 
Thomas  Wart  on,  the  second  of  that  honored 
name  who  held  the  office  of  Poetry  Professor 
at  Oxford,  that,  when  one  wished  to  find  him, 
being  absconded,  as  was  his  wont,  in  some 
obscure  alehouse,  he  was  counselled  to  trav- 
erse the  city  with  a  drum  and  fife,  the  sound 
of  which  inspiring  music  would  be  sure  to 
draw  the  Doctor  from  his  retirement  into  the 
street.  We  are  all  more  or  less  bitten  with 
this  martial  insanity.  Nescio  qua  dulccdine 
....  cunctos  duett.  I  confess  to  some  in- 
fection of  that  itch  myself.  When  I  see  a 
Brigadier-General  maintaining  his  insecure 
elevation  in  the  saddle  under  the  severe  fire 
of  the  training-field,  and  when  I  remember 
that  some  military  enthusiasts,  through  haste, 
inexperience,  or  an  over-desire  to  lend  real- 
ity to  those  fictitious  combats,  will  sometimes 
discharge  their  ramrods,  I  cannot  but  ad- 
mire, while  I  deplore,  the  mistaken  devotion 
of  those  heroic  officers.  Semcl  insani'vimus 
otnnes.  I  was  myself,  during  the  late  war 
with  Great  Britain,  chaplain  of  a  regiment, 
which  was  fortunately  never  called  to  active 


military  duty.  I  mention  this  circumstance 
with  regret  rather  than  pride.  Had  I  been 
summoned  to  actual  warfare,  I  trust  that  I 
might  have  been  strengthened  to  bear  my- 
self after  the  manner  of  that  reverend  father 
in  our  New  England  Israel,  Dr.  Benjamin 
Colinan,  who,  as  we  are  told  in  Turell's  life  / 
of  him,  when  the  vessel  in  which  he  had 
taken  passage  for  England  was  attacked  by 
a  French  privateer,  "fought  like  a  philoso- 
pher and  a  Christian,  ....  and  prayed  all 
the  while  he  charged  and  fired.  As  this, 
note  is  already  long,  I  shall  not  here  enter 
upon  a  discussion  of  the  question,  whether 
Christians  may  lawfully  be  soldiers.  I  think 
it  sufficiently  evident,  that,  during  the  first 
two  centuries  of  the  Christian  era,  at  least, 
the  two  professions  were  esteemed  incompat- 
ible.    Consult  Jortin  on  this  head.  —  H.  W.J 


No.   IV. 

REMARKS  OF  INCREASE  D.  o'FHACE, 
ESQUIRE,  AT  AN  EXTRUMPERY  CAU- 
CUS IN  STATE  STREET,  REPORTED 
BY  MR.  H.   B1GLOW. 

[The  ingenious  reader  will  at  once  under- 
stand that  no  such  speech  as  the  following 
was  ever  totidem  verbis  pronounced.  But 
there  are  simpler  and  less  guarded  wits,  for 
the  satisfying  of  which  such  an  explanation 
may  be  needful.  For  there  are  certain  in- 
visible lines,  which  as  Truth  successively 
overpasses,  she  becomes  Untruth  to  one  and 
another  of  us,  as  a  large  river,  flowing  from 
one  kingdom  into  another,  sometimes  takes  a 
new  name,  albeit  the  waters  undergo  no 
change,  how  small  soever.  There  is,  more- 
over, a  truth  of  fiction  more  veracious  than 
the  truth  of  fact,  as  that  of  the  Poet,  which 
represents  to  us  things  and  events  as  they 
ought  to  be,  rather  than  servilely  copies  them 
as  they  are  imperfectly  imaged  in  the  crooked 
and  smoky  glass  of  our  mundane  affairs.  It 
is  this  which  makes  the  speech  of  Antonius, 
though  originally  spoken  in  no  wider  a  forum 
than  the  brain  of  Shakespeare,  more  histori- 
cally valuable  than  that  other  which  Appian 
has  reported,  by  as  much  as  the  understand- 
ing of  the  Englishman  was  more  comprehen- 
sive than  that  of  the  Alexandrian.  Mr.  Big- 
low,  in  the  present  instance,  has  only  made 
use  of  a  license  assumed  by  all  the  historians 
of  antiquity,  who  put  into  the  mouths  of  vari- 
ous characters  such  words  as  seem  to  them 
most  fitting, to  the  occasion  and  to  the  speak- 
er. If  it  be  objected  that  no  such  oration 
could  ever  have  been  delivered,  I  answer, 
that  there  are  few  assemblages  for  speech- 
making  which  do  not  better  deserve  the  title 
of  Parliamentuyn  Indoctorum  than  did  the 


THE   BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


'95 


sixth  Parliament  of  Henry  the  Fourth,  and 
that  men  still  continue  to  have  as  much  faith 
in  the  Oracle  of  Fools  as  ever  Pantagruel 
had.  Howell,  in  his  letters,  recounts  a 
merry  tale  of  a  certain  ambassador  of  (Jueen 
Elizabeth,  who,  having  written  two  letters, — 
one  to  her  Majesty,  and  the  other  to  his  wife, — 
directed  them  at  cross-purposes,  so  that  the 
Queen  was  beducked  and  bedeared  and  re- 
quested to  send  a  change  of  hose,  and  the 
wife  was  beprincessed  and  otherwise  unwont- 
edly  besuperlatived,  till  the  one  feared  for 
the  wits  of  her  ambassador,  and  the  other 
for  those  of  her  husband.  In  like  manner  it 
may  be  presumed  that  our  speaker  has  mis- 
directed some  of  his  thoughts,  and  given  to 
the  whole  theatre  what  he  would  have  wished 
to  confide  only  to  a  select  auditory  at  the 
back  of  the  curtain.  For  it  is  seldom  that  we 
can  get  any  frank  utterance  from  men,  who 
address,  for  the  most  part,  a  Buncombe 
either  in  this  world  or  the  next.  As  for  their 
audiences,  it  may  be  truly  said  of  our  people, 
that  they  enjoy  one  political  institution  in 
common  with  the  ancient  Athenians  :  I  mean 
a  certain  profitless  kind  of  ostracism,  where- 
with, nevertheless,  they  seem  hitherto  well 
enough  content.  For  in  Presidential  elec- 
tions, and  other  affairs  of  the  sort,  whereas  I 
observe  that  the  oysters  fall  to  the  lot  of 
comparatively  few,  the  shells  (such  as  the 
privileges  of  voting  as  they  are  told  to  do  by 
the  ostrivori  aforesaid,  and  of  huzzaing  at 
public  meetings)  are  very  liberally  distributed 
among  the  people,  as  being  their  prescriptive 
and  quite  sufficient  portion. 

The  occasion  of  the  speech  is  supposed  to 
be  Mr.  Palfrey's  refusal  to  vote  for  the  Whig 
candidate  for  the  Speakership.  —  H.  W.] 

No?     Hez    he?     He   haint,    though? 

Wut  ?     Voted  agin  him  ? 
Ef  the  bird  of  our  country  could  ketch 

him,  she  'd  skin  him  ; 
I  seem  's  though  I  see  her,  with  wrath 

in  each  quill, 
Like  a  chancery  lawyer,  afilin'  her  bill, 
An'  grindin'  her  talents  ez  sharp  ez  all 

nater, 
To  pounce  tike  a  writ  on   the  back  o' 

the  traitor. 
Forgive  me,  my  friends,  ef  I  seem  to  be 

het, 
But  a  crisis  like  this  must  with  vigor  be 

met  ; 
Wen  an  Arnold  the  star-spangled  ban- 
ner bestains, 
Holl  Fourth  o'  Julys  seem  to  bile   in 

my  veins. 

Who  ever  'd  ha'  thought  sech  a  pison- 
ous  rig 


Would  be   run   by   a   chap   thet    wui 

chose  fer  a  Wig  ? 
"  We  knowed  wut   his  principles  wuz 

'fore  we  sent  him  "  ? 
Wut  wuz  ther  in  them  from  this  vote  to 

prevent  him  ? 
A   marciful   Providunce  fashioned    us 

holler 
O'  purpose  thet  we  might  our  principles 

swaller  ; 
It  can  hold  any  quantity  on    'em,    the 

belly  can, 
An'  bring  'em  up  ready  fer  use  like  the 

pelican, 
Or  more  like  the  kangaroo,  who   (wich 

is  stranger) 
Puts  her   family   into   her  pouch  wen 

there  's  danger. 
Aint  principle  precious  ?  then,    who  's 

goin'  to  use  it 
Wen  there  's  resk  o'  some  chap  's  gittin' 

up  to  abuse  it  ? 
I  can't  tell  the  wy  on  't,  but   nothin'  is 

so  sure 
Ez  thet  principle  kind  o'  gits  spiled  by 

exposure  ;  * 
A  man  thet  lets  all  sorts  o'  folks  git  a 

sight  on  't 
Ough'  to  hev  it   all   took  right  away, 

every  mite  on  't  ; 
Ef  he  can't  keep  it  all  to  himself  wen 

it 's  wise  to, 
He  aint  one  it 's  fit  to  trust  nothin'  so 

nice  to. 

Besides,  ther 's  a  wonderful   power  in 

latitude 
To  shift  a  man's   morril   relations  an' 

attitude  ; 
Some  flossifers  think  thet  a  fakkilty  's 

granted 

*  The  speaker  is  of  a  different  mind  from 
Tully,  who,  in  his  recently  discovered  trac- 
tate De  Repuhlica,  tells  us,  —  Nee  vero  habere 
I'irtutem  satis  est,  quasi  artetti  aliquant, 
nisi  utare,  and  from  our  Milton,  who  says  : 
"  I  cannot  praise  a  fugitive  and  cloistered 
virtue,  unexercised  and  unbreathed,  that 
never  sallies  out  and  sees  her  adversary,  but 
slinks  out  of  the  race  where  that  immortal 
garland  is  to  be  run  for,  not -without  dust  and 
heat." — Areop.  He  had  taken  the  words 
out  of  the  Roman's  mouth,  without  knowing 
it,  and  might  well  exclaim  with  Austin  (if  a 
saint's  name  may  stand  sponsor  for  a  curse), 
Pereant  qui  ante  nos  nostra  dixerint  I -< 
H.  W. 


ig6 


THE   B I  GLOW  PAPERS. 


The  minnit  j*  's  proved  to  be  thorough- 
ly wanted, 
Thet  a  change   o'   demand  makes    a 

change  o'  condition, 
An'  thet  everythin'  'snothin'  except  by 

position  ; 
Ez,  fer  instance,  thet  rubber-trees  fust 

begun  bearin' 
Wen   p'litikle   conshunces   come    into 

wearin',  — 
Thet  the  fears  of  a  monkey,  whose  holt 

chanced  to  fail, 
Drawed  the  vertibry  out  to  a  prehensile 

tail  ; 
So,  wen  one  's   chose   to   Congriss,  ez 

soon  ez  he  's  in  it, 
A  collar  grows  right  round   his  neck  in 

a  minnit, 
An'  sartin  it  is  thet  a  man  cannot  be 

strict 
In  bein'  himself,  wen   he  gits  to  the 

Deestrict, 
Fer  a  coat  thet   sets  wal  here  in  ole 

Massachusetts, 
Wen  it  gits  on  to  Washinton,  somehow 

askew  sets. 

Resolves,  do  you  say,  o'  the  Springfield 

Convention? 
Thet's  percisely  the  pint  I  was  goin'  to 

mention  ; 
Resolves  air  a  thing  we  most  gen 'ally 

keep  ill, 
They  're  a  cheap  kind  o'  dust  fer  the 

eyes  o'  the  people  ; 
A  parcel  o'  delligits  jest  get  together 
An'  chat  fer  a  spell  o'  the  crops  an'  the 

weather, 
Then,  comin'  to  order,   they  squabble 

awile 
An'  let  off  the  speeches  they  're  ferful 

'11  spile  ; 
Then —  Resolve,  — Thet  we  wunt  hev 

an  inch  o'  slave  territory  ; 
Thet  President  Polk's  holl  perceedins 

air  very  tory ; 
Thet  the   war  is  a   damned   war,   an' 

them  thet  enlist  in  it 
Should  hev  a  cravat  with  a  dreffle  tight 

twist  in  it  ; 
Thet  the  war  is  a  war  fer  the  spreadin' 

o'  slavery  ; 
Thet  our  army  desarves  our  best  thanks 

fer  their  bravery ; 


Thet  we  're  the  original  friends  o'  the 

nation, 
All  the  rest  air  a  paltry  an'  base  fab- 
rication ; 
Thet  we  highly  respect  Messrs.  A,  B, 

an'  C, 
An'  ez  deeply  despise  Messrs.  E,    F, 

an'  G. 
In  this  way  they  go  to  the  eend  o'  the 

chapter, 
An'  then  they  bust  out  in  a  kind  of  a 

raptur 
About    their    own    vartoo,   an'  folks'* 

stone-blindness 
To  the  men  thet  'ould  actilly  do  'em  » 

kindness,  — 
The  American   eagle,  —  the   Pilgrim' 

thet  landed,  — 
Till   on   ole  Plymouth  Rock  they  gi' 

finally  stranded. 
Wal,    the  people   they  listen  and   say, 

"  Thet's  the  ticket ; 
Ez  fer   Mexico,  'taint  no  great  glory  to 

lick  it, 
But  'twould  be  a  darned  shame   to  go 

pullin'  o'  triggers 
To  extend  the  aree  of  abusin'  the  nig- 
gers." 

So  they  march  in  percessions,  an'  git 

up  hooraws, 
An'  tramp  thru  the  mud  fer  the  good  o 

the  cause, 
An"  think  they  're  a  kind  o'  fulfillin'  the 

prophecies, 
Wen  they're   on'y  jest    changin'   the 

holders  of  prices , 
Ware  A   sot  afore,    B   is    comf'tablv 

seated, 
One  humbug  's  victor'ous  an'   t'other 

defeated, 
Each  honnable  doughface  gits  jest  wut 

he  axes, 
An'  the   people  —  their  annooal   soft- 

sodder  an'  taxes. 

Now,    to  keep   unimpaired  all    these 

glorious  feeturs 
Thet  characterize  morril   an'  reasonin' 

creeturs, 
Thet  give  every  paytriot  all  he  can  cram, 
Thet  oust  the  untrustworthy  Presidunt 

Flam. 
And  stick  honest  Presidunt   Sham  in 

his  place, 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


'97 


To  the  manifest  gain  o'  the  holl  human 

race, 
An'   to   some   indervidgewals  on 't   in 

partickler, 
Who  love   Public  Opinion  an'  know 

how  to  tickle  her,  — 
I  say  thet  a  party  with  great  aims  like 

these 
Must  stick  jest  ez  close  ez  a  hive  full  o' 

bees. 

I  'm  willin'  a  man  should  go  tollable 

strong 
Agin    wrong   in  the  abstract,   fer  thet 

kind  o'  wrong 
Is  oilers  unpop'lar  an'  never  gits  pitied, 
Because  it 's  a  crime  no  one  never  com- 
mitted ; 
But  he  mus'  n't  be  hard  on  partickler 

sins, 
Coz  then  he  '11  be  kickin'  the  people's 

own  shins ; 
On'y  look  at  the  Demmercrats,  see  wut 

they  've  done 
Jest   simply  by   stickin'  together  like 

fun ; 
They  've  sucked  us  right  into  a  mis'able 

war 
Thet  no  one  on  airth  aint  respansible 

for; 
They  've  run  us  a  hundred  cool  millions 

in  debt 
(An'  fer  Demmercrat  Homers  ther  's 

good  plums  leftyet)  ; 
They  talk  agin  tayriffs,   but  act  fer  a 

high  one, 
An'  so  coax  all  parties  to  build  up  their 

Zion  ; 
To  the  people  they  're  oilers  ez  slick  ez 

molasses, 
An'  butter  their  bread  on  both  sides 

with  The  Masses, 
Half  o'  whom   they  've   persuaded,  by 

way  of  a  joke, 
Thet  Washinton's  mantelpiece  fell  upon 

Polk. 

Now  all   o'  these  blessin's  the   Wigs 

might  enjoy, 
Ef  they  'd  gumption  enough  the  right 

means  to  imploy  ;  * 

•  That  was  a  pithy  saying  of  Persius,  and 
fits  our  politicians  without  a  wrinkle, — Ma- 
gister  artis,  ingeniiquc  largitor  venter, — 
H.  W. 


Fer  the  silver  spool,  Dorn  in   Dermoc- 

racy's  mouth 
Is  a  kind  of  a  scrir.ge  thet  they  hev  to 

the  South  ; 
Their  masters  can   cuss  'em  an'  kick 

'em  an'  wale  'em, 
An'  they  notice  it  less  'an  the   ass  did 

to  Balaam  ; 
In  this  way  they  screw  into  second- 
rate  offices 
Wich  the  slaveholder  thinks  'ould  sub- 

stracttoo  much  off  his  ease  ; 
The  file-leaders,  I  mean,  du,  fer  they, 

by  their  wiles, 
Unlike  the  old  viper,  grow  fat  on  their 

files. 
Wal,  the  Wigs  hev  been  tryin'  to  grab 

all  this  prey  frum  'em 
An'  to  hook   this  nice  spoon  o'  good 

fortin'  away  frum  'em, 
An'  they  might  ha'  succeeded,  ez  likely 

ez  not, 
In  lickin'  the  Demmercrats  all  round 

the  lot, 
Ef  it  warn't  thet,  wile  all  faithful  Wigs 

were  their  knees  on, 
Some   stuffy  old   codger  would   holler 

out,  —  "  Treason  ! 
You  must  keep  a  sharp  eye  on  a  dog 

thet  hez  bit  you  once, 
An'  /  aint  agoin'  to  cheat  my  constit- 

oounts,"  — 
Wen  every  fool   knows  thet  a  man  rep- 
resents 
Not  the  fellers  thet  sent  him,  but  them 

on  the  fence,  — 
Impartially  ready  to  jump  either  side 
An'  make  the  fust  use  of  a  turn  o'  the 

tide, — 
The  waiters  on  Providunce  here  in  the 

city, 
Who  compose  wut   they  call  a  State 

Centerl  Committy. 
Constitoounts  air  hendy  to  help  a  man 

in, 
But  arterwards  don't  weigh  the  heft  of 

a  pin. 
Wy,  the  people  can't  all  live  on  Uncle 

Sam's  pus, 
So  they  've  nothin'    to   du   with 't  fer 

better  or  wus  ; 
It's  the  folks  thet  air  kind  o'  brought 

up  to  depend  on  't 
Thet  hev  any  consarn  in  't,   an'  thet  is 

tue  end  on  't. 


198 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


Now  here  wuz  New   England  ahevin' 

the  honor 
Of  a  chance  at  the  Speakership  show- 
ered upon  her ;  — 
Do   you   say, —  "She   don't   want    no 

more  Speakers,  but  fewer ; 
She  's  hed  plenty  o'  them,  wut  she  wants 

is  a  doer"  ? 
Fer  the  matter  o'  thet,  it 's  notorous  in 

town 
Thet  her  own  representatives   du  her 

quite  brown. 
But  thet 's  nothin'  to   du  with  it ;  wut 

right  hed  Palfrey 
To  mix  himself  up  with  fanatical  small 

fry? 
Warn't  we  gittin'  on  prime  with  our  hot 

an'  cold  blowin', 
Acondemnin'  the  war  wilst  we  kep'  it 

agoin'  ? 
We  'd  assumed  with  gret  skill  a  com- 

mandin'  position, 
On  this  side  or  thet,  no  one  could  n't 

tell  wich  one, 
So,  wutever  side  wipped,  we  'd  a  chance 

at  the  plunder 
An'  could  sue  fer  infringin'  our  pay- 
tented  thunder  ; 
We  were  ready  to  vote  fer  whoever  wuz 

eligible, 
Ef  on  all  pints  at  issoo  he  'd  stay  unin- 
telligible. 
Wal,  sposm'  we  hed  to  gulp  down  our 

perfessions, 
We  were  ready  to  come  out  next  morn- 

in'  with  fresh  ones  ; 
Besides,  ef  we  did,  't  was  our  business 

alone, 
Fer  could  n't  we  du  wut  we  would  with 

our  own  ? 
An'  ef  a  man  can,  wen  pervisions  hev 

riz  so, 
Eat  up  his  own  words,  it 's  a  marcy  it 

is  so. 


Wy,  these  chaps  frum  the  North,  with 

back-bones  to  'em,  darn  'em, 
'Ould  be  wuth  more  'an  Gennle  Tom 

Thumb  is  to  Barnum  : 
Ther  's  enough  thet  to  office  on  this 

very  plan  grow, 
By  exhibitin'  how  very  small  a  man  can 

grow; 


But  an  M.  C.  frum  here  oilers  hastens 

to  state  he 
Belongs  to   the   order  called   inverte- 

braty, 
Wence  some  gret  filologists  judge  priiny 

fashy 
Thet  M.  C.  is  M.  T.  by  paronomashy ; 
An'   these   few   exceptions   air    loosus 

naytury 
Folks  'ould  put  down  their  quarters  to 

stare  at,  like  fury. 

It 's  no  use  to  open  the  door  o'  success, 
Ef  a  member  can  bolt  so  fer  nothin'  or 

less  ; 
Wy,  all  o'  them  grand  constitootional 

pi  Hers 
Our  fore-fathers  fetched  with  'em  over 

the  billers, 
Them  pillers  the  people  so  soundly  hev 

slep'  on, 
Wile  to  slav'ry,  invasion,  an'  debt  they 

were  swep'  on, 
Wile   our  Destiny  higher  an'  higher 

kep'  mountin' 
(Though  I  guess  folks  '11  stare  wen  she 

hends  her  account  in), 
Ef  members   in   this  way  go   kicken 

agin  'em, 
They  wunt  hev  so  much  ez  a  feather  left 

in  'em. 

An',  ez  fer  this  Palfrey,*  we  thought 

wen  we  'd  gut  him  in, 
He  'd  go  kindly  in  wutever  harness  we 

put  him  in  ; 
Supposin'  we  did  know  thet  he  wuz  a 

peace  man  ? 
Doos  he  think  he  can  be  Uncle  Sam- 

mle's  policeman, 
An'  wen  Sam  gits  tipsy  an'  kicks  up  a 

riot, 
Lead  him  off  to  the  lockup  to  snooze 

till  he's  quiet? 
Wy,  the  war  is  a  war  thet  true  paymots 

can  bear,  ef 
It  leads  to  the  fat  promised  land  of  a 

tayriff ; 
We  don't  go  an'  fight  it,  nor  aint  to  be 

driv  on, 
Nor  Demmercrats  nuther,  thet  hev  wut 

to  live  on ; 
*  There  is  truth  yet  in  this  of  Juvenal,  — 
"  Dat  veniamcorvis,  vexat  censuracolumbas.' 

H.  W. 


THE   BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


199 


Ef  it  aint  jest  the  thing   thet  's  well 

pleasin'  to  God, 
It  makes  us  thought  highly  on  else- 
where abroad  ; 
The  Rooshian  black  eagle  looks  blue 

in  his  eerie 
An'   shakes   both   his  heads  wen    he 

hears  o'  Monteery  ; 
In   the   Tower   Victory  sets,   all   of  a 

fluster, 
An'  reads,  with  locked  doors,  how  we 

won  Cherry  Buster  ; 
An'  old  Philip  Lewis  —  thet  come  an' 

kep'  school  here 
Fer  the  mere  sake  o'  scorin'  his  ryalist 

ruler 
On  the  tenderest  part  of  our  kings  in 

future  — 
Hides  his  crown   underneath  an   old 

shut  in  his  bureau, 
Breaks  off  in  his  brags  to  a  suckle  o' 

merry  kings, 
How  he  often  hed  hided  young  native 

Amerrikins, 
An'  turnin'  quite  faint  in  the  midst  of 

his  fooleries, 
Sneaks  down  stairs  to  bolt  the  front 

door  o'  the  Tooleries.* 

You  say,  —  "  We  'd  ha'  scared  'em  by 

growin'  in  peace, 
A  plaguy  sight  more  then  by  bobberies 

like  these  "  ? 


'  Jortin  is  willing  to  allow  of  other  mira- 
cles besides  those  recorded  in  Holy  Writ, 
and  why  not  of  other  prophecies?  It  is  grant- 
ing too  much  to  Satan  to  suppose  him,  as 
divers  of  the  learned  have  done,  the  inspirer 
of  the  ancient  oracles.  Wiser,  I  esteem  it, 
to  give  chance  the  credit  of  the  successful 
ones.  What  is  said  here  of  Louis  Philippe 
was  verified  in  some  of  its  minute  particulars 
within  a  few  months'  time.  Enough  to  have 
made  the  fortune  of  Delphi  or  Hammon,  and 
no  thanks  to  Beelzebub  neither  1  That  of 
Seneca  in  Medea  will  suit  here  :  — 

11  Rapida  fortuna  ac  levis 
Prcecepsque  regno  eripuit,  exsilio  dedit." 
Let  us  allow,  even  to  richly  deserved  mis- 
fortune, our  commiseration,  and  be  not  over- 
hasty  meanwhile  in  our  censure  of  the  French 
people,  left  for  the  first  time  to  govern  them- 
selves, remembering  that  wise  sentence  of 
iCschylus,  — 

'A7ras  5e  rpaxyt  ocrris  av  viov  Kparrj. 

H.  W. 


Who  is  it  dares  say  thet     our  naytional 

eagle 
Wun't  much  longer  be  classed  with  ;he 

birds  thet  air  regal, 
Coz  theirn  be  hooked  beaks,  an'  she, 

arter  this  slaughter, 
'11  bring  back  a  bill  ten  times  longer  'n 

she  ough'  to  "  ? 
Wut  's  your  name  ?    Come,  I  see  ye, 

you  up-country  feller, 
You  've  put  me  out  severil  times  with 

your  beller ; 
Out  with  it!    Wut?    Biglow?    I   say 

nothin'  furder, 
Thet  feller  would  like  nothin'  better  'n 

a  murder  ; 
He  's  a  traiter,  blasphemer,  an'  wut 

ruther  worse  is, 
He  puts  all  his  ath'ism  in  dreffle  bad 

verses  ; 
Socity  aint  safe  till  sech  monsters  air 

out  on  it, 
Refer  to  the  Post,  ef  you  hev  the  least 

doubt  on  it; 
Wy,  he  goes  agin  war,  agin   indirect 

taxes, 
Agin  sellin'  wild  lands  'cept  to  settlers 

with  axes, 
Agin  holdin'  o:  slaves,  though  he  knows 

it 's  the  corner 
Our    libbaty    rests    on,    the    mis'able 

scorn er  ! 
In  short,  he  would  wholly  upset  with 

his  ravages 
All  thet  keeps  us  above  the  brute  crit- 
ters an'  savages, 
An'  pitch  into  all  kinds  o'  briles  an* 

confusions 
The  holl  of  our  civilized,  free  institu- 
tions ; 
He  writes  fer  thet  ruther  unsafe  print, 

the  Courier, 
An'  likely  ez   not  hez   a  squintin'  to 

Foorier  ; 
I  '11  be ,  thet  is,   I   mean  I  '11  be 

blest, 
Ef  I  hark  to  a  word  frum  so  noted  a 

pest  ; 
I  sha'  n't  talk  with  him,  my  religion  's 

too  fervent.  — 
Good  mornin',  my  friends,  I  'm  your 

most  humble  servant. 

[Into  the  question,  whether  the  ability  to 
express  ourselves  in  articulate  language  has 


THE   BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


been  productive  of  more  good  or  evil,  I  shall 
not  here  enter  at  large.  The  two  faculties 
of  speech  and  of  speech-making'  are  wholly 
diverse  in  their  natures.  By  the  first  we 
make  ourselves  intelligible,  by  the  last  unin- 
telligible, to  our  fellows.  It  has  not  seldom 
occurred  to  me  (noting  how  in  our  national 
legislature  e\  ^rything  runs  to  talk,  as  let- 
tuces, if  the  season  or  the  soil  be  unpropi- 
tious,  shoot  up  lankly  to  seed,  instead  of  form- 
ing handsome  heads)  that  Babel  was  the  first 
Congress,  the  earliebt  mill  erected  for  the 
manufacture  of  gabble.  In  these  days,  what 
with  Town  Meetings,  School  Committees, 
Boards  (lumber)  of  one  kind  and  another, 
Congresses,  Parliaments,  Diets,  Indian  Coun- 
cils, Palavers,  and  the  like,  there  is  scarce  a 
village  which  has  not  its  factories  of  this  de- 
scription driven  by  (milk-and-)  water  power. 
1  cannot  conceive  the  confusion  of  tongues  to 
have  been  the  curse  of  Babel,  since  I  esteem 
my  ignorance  of  other  languages  as  a  kind 
of  Martello-tower,  in  which  I  am  safe  from 
the  furious  bombardments  of  foreign  garru- 
lity. For  this  reason  I  have  ever  preferred 
the  study  of  the  dead  languages,  those  prim- 
itive formations  being  Ararats  upon  whose 
silent  peaks  I  sit  secure  and  watch  this  new 
deluge  without  fear,  though  it  rain  figures 
(simulacra,  semblances)  ofspeech  forty  days 
and  nights  together,  as  it  not  uncommonly 
happens.  Thus  is  my  coat,  as  it  were,  with- 
out buttons  by  which  any  but  a  vernacular 
wild  bore  can  seize  me.  Is  it  not  possible 
that  the  Shakers  may  intend  to  convey  a 
quiet  reproof  and  hint,  in  fastening  their 
outer  garments  with  hooks  and  eyes? 

This  reflection  concerning  Babel,  which  I 
find  in  no  Commentary,  was  first  thrown  upon 
my  mind  when  an  excellent  deacon  of  my 
congregation  (being  infected  with  the  Second 
Advent  delusion)  assured  me  that  he  had 
received  a  first  instalment  of  the  gift  of 
tongues  as  a  small  earnest  of  larger  posses- 
sions in  the  like  kind  to  follow.  For,  of  a 
truth,  I  could  not  reconcile  it  with  my  ideas 
of  the  Divine  justice  and  mercy  that  the 
single  wall  which  protected  people  of  other 
languages  from  the  incursions  of  this  other- 
wise well-meaning  propagandist  should  be 
broken  down. 

Tn  reading  Congressional  debates,  I  have 
fancied,  that,  after  the  subsidence  of  those 
painful  buzzings  in  the  brain  which  result 
from  such  exercises,  I  detected  a  slender 
residuum  of  valuable  information.  I  made 
the  discovery  that  nothing  takes  longer  in 
the  saying  than  anything  else,  for  asexnihi/o 
nihifjit,  so  from  one  polypus  nothing  any 
number  of  similar  ones  may  be  produced.  I 
would  recommend  to  the  attention  of  viva 
voce  debaters  and  controversialists  the  ad- 
mirable example  of  the  monk  Copres,  who, 
in  the  fourth  century,  stood  for  half  an  hour 
in  the  midst  of  a  great  fire,  and  thereby  si- 
lenced a  Manichfean  antagonist  who  had  less 
•f  the  salamander  in  him.     As  for  those  who 


quarrel  in  print,  I  have  no  concern  with  them 
here,  since  the  eyelids  are  a  divinely  granted 
shield  against  all  such.  Moreover,  I  hava 
observed  in  many  modern  books  that  the 
printed  portion  is  becominggradually  smaller, 
and  the  number  of  blank  urtiy-ltaves  (as  they 
are  called)  greater.  Should  this  fortunate 
tendency  of  literature  continue,  books  will 
grow  more  valuable  from  year  to  year,  and 
the  whole  Serbonian  bog  yield  to  the  advances 
of  firm  arable  land. 

The  sagacious  Lacedaemonians  hearing 
that  Tesephone  had  bragged  that  he  could 
talk  all  day  long  on  any  given  subject,  made 
no  more  ado,  but  forthwith  banished  him, 
whereby  they  supplied  him  a  topic  and  at 
the  same  time  took  care  that  his  experiment 
upon  it  should  be  tried  out  of  ear-shot. 

I  have  wondered,  in  the  Representatives* 
Chamber  of  our  own  Commonwealth,  to  mark 
how  little  impression  seemed  to  be  produced 
by  that  emblematic  fish  suspended  over  the 
heads  of  the  members.  Our  wiser  ancestors, 
no  doubt,  hune  it  there  as  being  the  animal 
which  the  Pytnagoreans  reverenced  for  its 
silence,  and  which  certainly  in  that  particular 
does  not  so  well  merit  the  epithet  cold-blooded, 
by  which  naturalists  distinguish  it,  as  certain 
bipeds,  afflicted  with  ditch-water  on  the  brain, 
who  tak*1  occasion  to  tap  themselves  in  Fan- 
euil  Halls,  meeting-houses,  and  othef  place* 
of  public  resort.  —  H.  W.] 


No.  V. 


THE  DEBATE  IN  THE  SEN- 
NIT. 

SOT  TO  A  NUSRY  RHYMB. 

[The  incident  which  gave  rise  to  the  debate 
satirized  in  the  following  verses  was  the  un- 
successful attempt  of  Drayton  and  Sayres  to 
give  freedom  to  seventy  men  and  women, 
fellow-beings  and  fellow-Christians.  Had 
Tripoli,  instead  of  Washington,  been  the 
scene  of  this  undertaking,  the  unhappy  lead- 
ers in  it  would  have  been  as  secure  of  the 
theoretic  as  they  now  are  of  the  practical 

6 art  of  martyrdom.  1  question  whether  the 
ley  of  Tripoli  is  blessed  with  a  District  At- 
torney so  benighted  as  ours  at  the  seat  of 
government.  Very  fitly  is  he  named  Key, 
who  would  allow  himself  to  be  made  the  in- 
strument of  locking  the  door  of  hope  against 
sufferers  in  such  a  cause.  Not  all  the  water) 
of  the  ocean  can  cleanse  the  vile  smutch  of 
the  jailer's  fingers  from  off  that  little  Key. 
Ahenea  elands,  a  brazen  Key  indeed  1 

Mr.  Calhoun,  who  is  made  the  chief  speakei 
in  this  burlesque,  seems  to  think  that  the 
light  of  the  nineteenth  century  is  to  be  put 
out  as  soon  as  he  tinkles  his  little  cow-bel] 
curfew.     Whenever    slavery  is  touched,  h« 


THE  BIG  LOW  PAPERS. 


sets  up  his  scarecrow  of  dissolving-  the  Union. 
This  may  do  for  the  North,  but  I  should  con- 
jecture that  something  more  than  a  pumpkin- 
lantern  is  required  to  scare  manifest  and  irre- 
trievable Destiny  out  of  her  path.  Mr.  Cal- 
houn cannot  let  go  the  apron-string  of  the 
Past.  The  Past  is  a  good  nurse,  but  we 
must  be  weaned  from  her  sooner  or  later, 
even  though,  like  Plotinus,  we  should  run 
home  from'  school  to  ask  the  breast,  after  we 
are  tolerably  well-grown  youths.  It  will  not 
do  for  us  to  hide  our  faces  in  her  lap,  when- 
ever the  strange  Future  holds  out  her  arms 
and  asks  us  to  come  to  her. 

But  we  are  all  alike.  We  have  all  heard 
it  said,  often  enough,  that  little  boys  must 
not  play  with  fire  ;  and  yet,  if  the  matches  be 
taken  away  from  us,  and  put  out  of  reach 
upon  the  shelf,  we  must  needs  get  into  our 
little  corner,  and  scowl  and  stamp  and 
threaten  the  dire  revenge  of  going  to  bed 
without  our  supper.  The  world  shall  stop 
tiil  we  get  our  dangerous  plaything  again. 
Dame  Earth,  meanwhile,  who  has  more  than 
enough  household  matters  to  mind,  goes 
bustling  hither  and  thither  as  a  hiss  or  a 
sputter  tells  her  that  this  or  that  kettle  of  hers 
is  boiling  over,  and  before  bedtime  we  are 
glad  to  eat  our  porridge  cold,  and  gulp  down 
our  dignity  along  with  it. 

Mr.  Calhoun  has  somehow  acquired  the 
name  of  a  great  statesman,  and,  if  tt  be  great 
statesmanship  to  put  lance  in  rest  and  run  a 
tilt  at  the  Spirit  of  the  Age  with  the  certainty 
of  being  next  moment  hurled  neck  and  heels 
into  the  dust  amid  universal  laughter,  he  de- 
serves the  title.  He  is  the  Sir  Kay  of  our 
modern  chivalry.  He  should  remember  the 
old  Scandinavian  mythus.  Thor  was  the 
strongest  of  god-;,  but  he  could  not  wrestle 
with  Time,  nor  so  much  as  lift  up  a  fold  of 
the  great  snake  which  knit  the  universe 
together ;  and  when  he  smote  the  Earth, 
though  with  his  terrible  mallet,  it  was  but  as 
if  a  leaf  had  fallen.  Yet  all  the  while  it 
seemed  to  Thor  that  he  had  only  been  wres- 
tling with  an  old  woman,  striving  to  lift  a  cat, 
and  striking  a  stupid  giant  on  the  head. 

And  in  old  times,  doubtless,  the  giants 
•were  stupid,  and  there  was  no  better  sport 
for  the  Sir  Launcelots  and  Sir  Gawains  than 
to  go  about  cutting  off  their  great  blundering 
heads  with  enchanted  swords.  But  things 
have  wonderfully  changed.  It  is  the  giants, 
nowadays,  that  have  the  science  and  the 
intelligence,  while  the  chivalrous  Don  Quix- 
otes of  Conservatism  still  cumber  themselves 
with  the  clumsy  armor  of  a  bygone  age.  On 
whirls  the  restless  globe  through  unsounded 
time,  with  its  cities  and  its  silences,  its  births 
and  funerals,  half  light,  half  shade,  but  never 
wholly  dark,  and  sure  to  swing  round  into  the 
happy  morning  at  last.  With  an  involuntary 
smile,  one  sees  Mr.  Calhoun  letting  slip  his 
pack-thread  cable  with  a  crooked  pin  at  the 
end  of  it  to  anchor  South  Carolina  upon  the 
bank  and  shoal  of  the  Past.  —  H.  W.] 


TO   MR.   BUCKENAM. 

MR.  Editer,  As  i  wuz  kinder  prunin 
round,  in  a  little  nussry  sot  out  a  year 
or  2  a  go,  the  Dbait  in  the  sennit  cum 
inter  my  mine  An  so  i  took  &  Sot  it  to 
wut  I  call  a  nussry  rime.  I  hev  made 
sum  onnable  Gentlemun  speak  that 
dident  speak  in  a  Kind  uv  Poetikul  lie 
sense  the  seeson  is  dreffle  backerd  up 
This  way 

ewers  as  ushul 

HOSEA   BIGLOW. 

"  Here  we  stan'  on  the  Constitution, 
by  thunder ! 
It 's  a  fact  o'  wich  ther  's  bushils  o' 
proofs  ; 
Fer  how  could  we   trample  on 't  so,  I 
wonder, 
Ef  't  worn't  thet  it 's  oilers  under  our 
hoofs?" 
Sez  John  C.  Calhoun,  sez  he ; 
"  Human  rights  haint  no  more 
Right  to  come  on  this  floor, 
No  more  'n  the  man  in  the  moon," 
sez  he. 

"  The  North  haint  no  kind  o'  bisness 
with  nothin', 
An'  you  've  no  idee  how  much  bother 
it  saves  ; 
We  aint  none  riled  by  their  frettin'  an' 
frothin', 
We  're  used  to  layin'  the  string  on 
our  slaves," 
Sez  John  C.  Calhoun,  sez  he  ;  — 
Sez  Mister  Foote, 
"  I  should  like  to  shoot 
The   holl  gang,  by  the  gret  horn 
spoon  ! "  sez  he. 

"  Freedom's  Keystone  is  Slavery,  thet 
ther's  no  doubt  on, 
It's  sutthin'  diet's — wha'  d'  ye  call 
it  ?  —  divine,  — 
An'  the  slaves  thet  we  oilers  make  tho 
most  out  on 
Air  them  north  o'  Mason  an'  Dixon's 
line," 
Sez  John  C.  Calhoun,  sez  he  ;  — 
"  Fer  all  thet."  sez  Mangum, 
"  'T  would  be  better  to  hang  'em, 
An'  so  git  red  on  'em  soon,"  sez  he 


THE   BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


"  The  mass  ough'  to  labor  an'  we  lay 
on  soffies, 
Thet  's  the  reason   I  want  to  spread 
Freedom's  aree  ; 
It  puts  all  the  cunninest  on  us  in  office. 
An'    reelises    our    Maker's   orig'nal 
idee," 
Sez  John  C.  Calhoun,  sez  he  ;  — 
"  Thet's  ez  plain,"  sez  Cass, 
"  Ez  thet  some  one  's  an  ass, 
It 's  ez  clear  ez  the  sun  is  at  noon," 
sez  he. 

"  Now  don't  go  to  say  I  'm  the  friend 
of  oppression, 
But  keep  all  your  spare  breath  fer 
coolin'  your  broth, 
Fer  I  oilers  hev  strove  (at  least  thet 's 
my  impression) 
To  make  cussed  free  with  the  rights 
o'  the  North," 
Sez  John  C.  Calhoun,  sez  he  ; — 
"Yes,"  sez  Davis  o'  Miss., 
"The  perfection  o'  bliss 
Is  in  skinnin'  thet  same  old  coon," 
sez  he. 

"  Slavery  's  a   thing   thet   depends  on 
complexion, 
It 's  God's  law  thet  fetters  on  black 
skins  don't  chafe ; 
Ef  brains  wuz  to  settle   it  (horrid  re- 
flection !) 
Wich   of   our  onnable    body  'd    be 
safe  ?  " 
Sez  John  C.  Calhoun,  sez  he  ;  — 
Sez  Mister  Hannegan, 
Afore  he  began  agin, 
"  Thet  exception   is  quite   opper- 
toon,"  sez  he. 

"  Gen'nle  Cass,   Sir,  you   need  n't  be 
twitchin'  your  collar, 
Your  merit 's  quite  clear  by  the  dut 
on  your  knees. 
At  the  North  we  don't  make  no  dis- 
tinctions o'  color ; 
You  can  all  take  a  lick  at  our  shoes 
wen  you  please," 
Sez  John  C.  Calhoun,  sez  he  ;  — 
Sez  Mister  Jarnagin, 
"  They  wunt  hev  to  larn  agin, 
They  all  on  'em  know  the  old  toon," 
sez  he. 


"  The  slavery  question  aint  no  wavj 
bewilderin'. 
North   an'    South  hev  one  int'rest, 
it 's  plain  to  a  glance  ; 
No'thern  men,  like  us  patriarchs,  don't 
sell  their  childrin, 
But  they  du  sell  themselves,  ef  they 
git  a  good  chance," 
Sez  John  C.  Calhoun,  sez  he ;  — 
Sez  Atherton  here, 
"  This  is  gittin'  severe, 
I  wish  I  could  dive  like  a  loon,"  ser 
he. 

"  It  '11  break  up  the  Union,  this  talk 
about  freedom, 
An*  your  fact'ry  gals  (soon   ez  we 
split)  '11  make  head, 
An'  gittin'  some  Miss  chief  or  other  to 
lead  'em, 
'11  go   to  work  raisin'   promiscoous 
Ned," 
Sez  John  C.  Calhoun,  sez  he  ;  — 
"Yes,  the  North,"  sez  Colquitt, 
"  Ef  we  Southeners  all  quit, 
Would  go  down  like  a  busted  bal- 
loon," sez  he. 

"  Jest  look  wut  is  doin',  wut  annyky  's 
brewin' 
In  the  beautiful  clime  o'  the  olive  an' 
vine, 
All  the  wise  aristoxy  is  tumblin'  to  ruin, 
An'  the  sankylots  drorin'  an'  drinkin' 
their  wine," 
Sez  John  C.  Calhoun,  sez  he  :  — 
"  Yes,"  sez  Johnson,  "  in  France 
They  're  beginnin'  to  dance 
Beelzebub's  own  rigadoon,"  sez  he. 

"The   South 's  safe  enough,   it   don't 
feel  a  mite  skeery, 
Our  slaves  in  their  darkness  an'  dut 
air  tu  blest 
Not  to  welcome  with  proud  hallylugers 
the  ery 
Wen  our  eagle  kicks  yourn  from  the 
naytional  nest," 
Sez  John  C.  Calhoun,  sez  he  :  — 
"  O."  sez  Westcott  o'  Florida, 
"Wut  treason  is  horrider 
Then      our    priv'leges     tryin'     to 
proon?"   sez  he. 


THE  BIGLOIV  PAPERS. 


*>3 


"  It 's  'coz  they  're  so  happy,  thet,  wen 
crazy  sarpints 
Stick  their  nose  in  our  bizness,  we  git 
so  darned  riled  ; 
We  think  it 's  our  dooty  to  give  pooty 
sharp  hints, 
Thet  the  last  crumb  of  Edin  on  airth 
sha'  n't  be  spiled," 
Sez  John  C.  Calhoun,  sez  he  ;  — 
"Ah,"  sez  Dixon  H.  Lewis, 
"It  perfectly  true  is 
Thet    slavery 's     airth's    grettest 
boon,"  sez  he. 

[It  was  said  of  old  time,  that  riches  have 
wings ;  and,  though  this  be  not  applicable  in 
a  literal  strictness  to  the  wealth  of  our  patri- 
archal brethren  of  the  South,  yet  it  is  clear 
that  their  possessions  have  legs,  and  an  un- 
accountable propensity  for  using  them  in  a 
northerly  direction.  1  marvel  that  the  grand 
jury  of  Washington  did  not  find  a  true  bill 
against  the  North  Star  for  aiding  and  abet- 
ting Drayton  and  Sayres.  It  would  have 
been  quite  of  a  piece  with  the  intelligence 
displayed  by  the  South  on  other  questions 
connected  with  slavery.  I  think  that  no  ship 
of  state  was  ever  freighted  with  a  more  veri- 
table Jonah  than  this  same  domestic  institu- 
tion of  ours.  Mephistopheles  himself  could 
not  feign  so  bitterly,  so  satirically  sad  a  sight 
as  this  of  three  millions  of  human  beings 
crushed  beyond  help  or  hope  by  this  one 
mighty  argument,  —  Our  fathers  knew  no 
tetter  !  Nevertheless,  it  is  the  unavoidable 
destiny  of  Jonahs  to  be  cast  overboard 
sooner  or  later.  Or  shall  we  try  the  experi- 
ment of  hiding  our  Jonah  in  a  safe  piace, 
that  none  may  lay  hands  on  him  to  make  jet- 
sam of  him?  Let  us,  then,  with  equal  fore- 
thought and  wisdom,  lash  ourselves  to  the 
anchor,  and  await,  in  pious  confidence,  the 
certain  result.  Perhaps  our  suspicious  pas- 
senger is  no  Jonah  after  all,  being  black. 
For  it  is  well  "known  that  a  superintending 
Providence  made  a  kind  of  sandwich  of  Ham 
and  his  descendants,  to  be  devoured  by  the 
Caucasian  race. 

In  God's  name,  let  all,  who  hear  nearer 
and  nearer  the  hungry  moan  of  the  storm 
and  the  growl  of  the  breakers,  speak  out ! 
But,  alas  !  we  have  no  right  to  interfere.  If 
a  man  pluck  an  apple  of  mine,  he  shall  be  in 
danger  of  the  justice ;  but  if  he  steal  my 
brother,  I  must  be  silent.  Who  says  this? 
Our  Constitution,  consecrated  by  the  callous 
consuetude  of  sixty  years,  and  grasped  in  tri- 
umphant argument  by  the  left  hand  of  him 
whose  right  hand  clutches  the  clotted  slave- 
whip.  Justice,  venerable  with  the  undethron- 
able  majesty  of  countless  aeons,  says,  — 
SPEAK  !  The  Past,  wise  with  the  sorrows 
and  desolations  of  ages,  from  amid  her  shat- 
tered fanes  aad  wolf-housing  palaces,  ech- 


oes,—  SPRAK  I  Nature,  through  her  thou- 
sand trumpets  of  freedom,  her  stars,  her  sun- 
rises, her  seas,  her  winds,  her  cataracts,  her 
mountains  blue  with  cloudy  pines,  blows  jubi- 
lant encouragement,  and  cries,  —  SPEAK  1 
From  the  soul's  trembling  abysses  the  still, 
small  voice  not  vaguely  murmurs, —  SPEAK! 
But,  alas!  the  Constitution  and  the  Honor- 
able  Mr.  Bagowind,  M.C.,  say,  —  Be  DUMB  ! 
It  occurs  to  me  to  suggest,  as  a  topic  of  in- 
quiry in  this  connection,  whether,  on  that 
momentous  occasion  when  the  goats  and  the 
sheep  shall  be  parted,  the  Constitution  and 
the  Honorable  Mr.  Bagowind,  M.  C,  will  be 
expected  to  take  their  places  on  the  left  as 
our  hircine  vicars. 

Quid  sum  7niser  tunc  dicturits  ? 
Quetn  patronum  rogaturus? 

There  is  a  point  where  toleration  sinks  into 
sheer  baseness  and  poltroonery.  The  tolera- 
tion of  the  worst  leads  us  to  look  on  what  is 
barely  better  as  good  enough,  and  to  worship 
what  is  only  moderately  good.  Woe  to  that 
man,  or  that  nation,  to  whom  mediocrity  has 
become  an  ideal  I 

Has  our  experiment  of  self-government 
succeeded,  if  it  barely  manage  to  rub  and 
go  ?  Here,  now,  is  a  piece  of  barbarism 
which  Christ  and  the  nineteenth  century  say 
shall  cease,  and  which  Messrs.  Smith,  Brown, 
and  others  say  shall  not  cease.  I  would  by 
no  means  deny  the  eminent  respectability  of 
these  gentlemen,  but  I  confess,  that,  in  such 
a  wrestling-match,  I  cannot  help  having  my 
fears  for  them. 

Discite  justitiam,  moniti,  et  non  temnere. 

H.  W.J 


No.  VI. 
THE  PIOUS  EDITOR'S  CREED. 

[AT  the  special  instance  of  Mr.  Biglow,  1 
preface  the  following  satire  with  an  extract 
from  a  sermon  preached  during  the  past 
summer,  from  Ezekiel  xxxiv.  2:  "Son  of 
man,  prophesy  against  the  shepherds  of  Is- 
rael." Since  the  Sabbath  on  which  this 
discourse  was  delivered,  the  editor  of  the 
"Jaalam  Independent  Blunderbuss"  has  un- 
accountably absented  himself  from  our  house 
of  worship. 

"I  know  of  no  so  responsible  position  as 
that  of  the  public  journalist.  The  editor  of 
our  day  bears  the  same  relation  to  his  time 
that  the  clerk  bore  to  the  age  before  the  in- 
vention of  printing.  Indeed,  the  position 
which  he  holds  is  that  which  the  clergyman 
should  hold  even  now.  But  the  clergyman 
chooses  to  walk  off  to  the  extreme  edge  of 
the  world,  and  to  throw  such  seed  as  he  has 
clear  over  into  that  darkness  which  he  calls 


ao4 


THE   BIG  LOW  PAPERS. 


the  Next  Life.  As  If  next  did  not  mean 
nearest,  and  as  if  any  life  were  nearer  than 
that  immediately  present  one  which  boils  and 
eddies  all  around  him  at  the  caucus,  the  rati- 
fication meeting,  and  the  polls  !  Who  taught 
him  to  exhort  men  to  prepare  for  eternity,  as 
for  some  future  era  of  which  the  present 
forms  no  integral  part?  The  furrow  which 
Time  is  even  now  turning  runs  through  the 
Everlasting,  and  in  that'  must  he  plant,  or 
nowhere.  Yet  he  would  fain  believe  and 
teach  that  we  are  going  to  have  more  of  eter- 
nity than  we  have  now.  This  going  of  his  is 
like  that  of  the  auctioneer,  on  which  gone 
follows  before  we  have  made  up  our  minds  to 
bid,  —  in  which  manner,  not  three  months 
back,  I  lost  an  excellent  copy  of  Chappelow 
on  Job.  So  it  has  come  to  pass  that  the 
preacher,  instead  of  being  a  living  force,  has 
faded  into  an  emblematic  figure  at  christen- 
ings, weddings,  and  funerals.  Or,  if  lie  ex- 
ercise any  other  function,  it  is  as  keeper  and 
feeder  of  certain  theologic  dogmas,  which, 
when  occasion  offers,  he  unkennels  with  a 
staboy  I  '  to  bark  and  bite  as  't  is  their  na- 
ture to,'  whence  that  reproach  of  odium  tlieo- 
logicum  has  arisen. 

"  Meanwhile,  see  what  a  pulpit  the  editor 
mounts  daily,  sometimes  with  a  congregation 
of  fifty  thousand  within  reach  of  his  voice, 
and  never  so  much  as  a  nodder,  even,  among 
them  !  And  from  what  a  Bib'.e  can  he  choose 
his  text,  —  a  Bible  which  needs  no  transla- 
tion, and  which  no  priestcraft  can  shut  and 
clasp  from  the  laity,  —  the  open  volume  of 
the  world,  apon  which,  with  a  pen  of  sun- 
shine or  destroying  fire,  the  inspired  Present 
is  even  now  writing  the  annals  of  God  !  Me- 
thinks  the  editor  who  should  understand  his 
calling,  and  be  equal  thereto,  would  truly 
deserve  that  title  of  iroiu.rji'  Aao)i<,  which 
Homer  bestows  upon  princes.  He  would  be 
the  Moses  of  our  nineteenth  century  ;  and 
whereas  the  old  Sinai,  silent  now,  is  but  a 
common  mountain  stared  at  by  the  elegant 
tourist  and  crawled  over  by  the  hammering 

f;eologist,  he  must  find  his  tables  of  the  new 
aw  here  among  factories  and  cities  in  this 
Wilderness  of  Sin  (Numbers  xxxiii.  12)  called 
Progress  of  Civilization,  and  be  the  captain 
of  our  Exodus  into  the  Canaan  of  a  truer 
social  order. 

"  Nevertheless,  our  editor  will  not  come  so 
far  within  even  the  shadow  of  Sinai  as  Ma- 
homet did,  but  chooses  rather  to  construe 
Moses  by  Joe  Smith.  He  takes  up  the  crook, 
not  that  the  sheep  may  be  fed,  but  that  he 
may  never  want  a  warm  woollen  suit  and  a 
joint  of  mutton. 
Jmmemor,     O,    Jidei,    fecorumque     oblite 

tuorum  1 
For  which  reason  I  would  derive  the  name 
editor  not  so  much  from  edo,  to  publish,  as 
from  edo,  to  eat,  that  being  the  peculiar  pro- 
fession to  which  he  esteems  himself  called. 
He  blows  up  the  flames  of  political  discord 


for  no  other  occasion  than  that  he  may  there- 
by handily  boil  his  own  pot.  I  believe  thers 
are  two  thousand  of  these  mutton-loving 
shepherds  in  the  United  States,  and  of  these, 
how  many  have  even  the  dimmest  perception 
of  their  immense  power,  and  the  duties  con- 
sequent thereon?  Here  and  there,  haply, 
one.  Nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  labor  to 
impress  upon  the  people  the  great  principles 
of  Tweedledum,  and  other  nine  hundred  and 
ninety-nine  preach  with  equal  earnestness 
the  gospel  according  to  Tweedtedee."  ■  - 
H.  W.] 

I  du  believe  in  Freedom|s  cause, 

Ez  fur  away  ez  Payris  is  ; 
I  love  to  see  her  stick  her  claws 

In  them  infarnal  Phayrisees  ; 
It 's  wal  enough  agin  a  king 

To  dror  resolves  an'  triggers,  — 
But  libbaty  's  a  kind  o'  thing 

Thet  don't  agree  with  niggers. 

I  du  believe  the  people  want 

A  tax  on  teas  an'  coffees, 
Thet  nothin'  aint  extravygunt,  — 

Purvidin'  I  'm  in  office  ; 
Fer  I  hev  loved  my  country  sence 

My  eye-teeth  filled  their  sockets, 
An'  Uncle  Sam  I  reverence, 

Partic'larly  his  pockets. 

I  du  believe  in  any  plan 

O'  levyin'  the  taxes, 
Ez  long  ez,  like  a  lumberman, 

I  git  jest  wut  1  axes  : 
I  go  free-trade  thru  thick  an'  thin, 

Because  it  kind  o'  rouses 
The  folks  to  vote,  — an'  keeps  us  in 

Our  quiet  custom-houses. 

I  du  believe  it 's  wise  an'  good 

To  sen'  out  furrin  missions, 
Thet  is,  on  sartin  understood 

An'  orthydox  conditions;  — 
I  mean  nine  thousan'  dolls,  per  ann., 

Nine  thousan'  more  fer  outfit, 
An'  me  to  recommend  a  man 

The  place  'ould  jest  about  fit. 

I  du  believe  in  special  ways 

O'  prayin'  an'  convartin'  ; 
The  bread  comes  back  in  many  days 

An'  buttered,  tu,  fer  sartin  ; 
I  mean  in  preyin'  till  one  busts 

On  wut  the  party  chooses. 
An'  in  convartin'  public  trusts 

To  very  privit  uses. 


THE  B I  GLOW  PAPERS. 


*°5 


I  du  believe  hard  coin  the  stuff 

Fer  Mectioneers  to  spout  on  : 
The  people's  oilers  sott  enough 

To  make  hard  money  out  on  ; 
Dear  Uncle  Sam  pervides  fer  his, 

An'  gives  a  good-sized  junk  to  all,— 
I  don't  care  how  hard  money  is, 

Ez  long  ez  mine  's  paid  punctooal. 

I  du  believe  with  all  my  soul 

In  the  gret  Press's  freedom, 
To  pint  the  people  to  the  goal 

An'  in  the  traces  lead  'em  ; 
Palsied  the  arm  thet  forges  yokes 

At  my  fat  contracts  squintin', 
An'  withered  be  the  nose  thet  pokes 

Inter  the  gov'ment  printin'l 

I  du  believe  thet  I  should  give 

Wut  's  his'n  unto  Csesar, 
Fer  it 's  by  him  I  move  an'  live, 

Frum  him  my  bread  an'  cheese  air  ; 
I  du  believe  thet  all  o'  me 

Doth  bear  his  superscription,  — 
Will,  conscience,  honor,  honesty, 

An'  things  o'  thet  description. 

I  du  believe  in  prayer  an'  praise 

To  him  that  hez  the  grantin' 
O'  jobs,  —  in  every  thin'  thet  pays, 

But  most  of  all  in  Cantin'  ; 
This  doth  my  cup  with  marcies  fill, 

This  lays  all  thought  o'  sin  to  rest,- 
I  don't  believe  in  princerple, 

But  O,  I  du  in  interest. 

I  du  believe  in  bein'  this 

Or  thet,  ez  it  may  happen 
One  way  or  t'other  hendiest  is 

To  ketch  the  people  nappin'  ; 
It  aint  by  princerples  nor  men 

My  preudunt  course  is  steadied,  — 
I  scent  wich  pays  the  best,  an'  then 

Go  into  it  baldheaded. 

I  du  believe  thet  holdin'  slaves 

Comes  nat'ral  to  a  Presidunt, 
Let  'lone  the  rowdedow  it  saves 

To  hev  a  wal -broke  precedunt  ; 
Fer  any  office,  small  or  gret, 

I  could  n't  ax  with  no  face, 
Without  I  'd  ben,  thru  dry  an'  wet, 

Th'  unrizzest  kind  o'  doughface. 


I  du  believe  wutever  trash 

Ml  keep  the  people  in  blindness, — 
Thet  we  the  Mexicuns  can  thrash 

Right  inter  brotherly  kindness, 
Thet   bombshells,   grape,    an'    powder 
'n'  ball 

Air  good-will 's  strongest  magnets, 
Thet  peace,  to  make  it  stick  at  all, 

Must  be  druv  in  with  bagnets. 

In  short,  I  firmly  du  believe  ' 

In  Humbug  generally, 
Fer  it 's  a  thing  thet  I  perceive 

To  hev  a  solid  vally  ; 
This  heth  my  faithful  shepherd  ben. 

In  pasturs  sweet  heth  led  me, 
An'  this  '11  keep  the  people  green 

To  feed  ez  they  hev  fed  me. 

[I  subjoin  here  another  passage  from  my 
before-mentioned  discourse. 

"  Wonderful,  to  him  that  has  eyes  to  see  it 
rightly,  is  the  newspaper.  To  me,  for  ex- 
ample, sitting  on  the  critical  front  bench  of 
the  pit,  in  my  study  here  in  Jaalam,  the  ad- 
vent of  my  weekly  journal  is  as  that  of  a 
strolling  theatre,  or  rather  of  a  puppet-show, 
on  whose  stage,  narrow  as  it  is,  the  tragedy, 
comedy,  and  farce  of  life  are  played  in  little. 
Behold  the  whole  huge  earth  sent  to  me  heb- 
domadally  in  a  brown-paper  wrapper  I 

"  Hither,  to  my  obscure  corner,  by  wind  or 
steam,  on  horseback  or  dromedary-back,  in 
the  pouch  of  the  Indian  runner,  or  clicking 
over  the  magnetic  wires,  troop  ail  the  famous 
performers  from  the  four  quarters  of  the 
globe.  Looked  at  from  a  point  of  criticism, 
tiny  puppets  they  seem  all,  as  the  editor  sets 
up  his  booth  upon  my  desk  and  officiates  as 
showman.  Now  I  can  truly  see  how  little 
and  transitory  is  life.  The  earth  appears 
almost  as  a  drop  of  vinegar,  on  which  the 
solar  microscope  of  the  imagination  must 
be  brought  to  bear  in  order  to  make  out 
anything  distinctly.  That  animalcule  there, 
in  the  pea-jacket,  is  Louis  Philippe,  just 
landed  on  the  coast  of  England.  That  other, 
in  the  gray  surtout  and  cocked  hat,  is  Napo- 
leon Bonaparte  Smith,  assuring  France  that 
she  need  apprehend  no  interference  from  him 
in  the  present  alarming  juncture.  At  that 
spot,  where  you  seem  to  see  a  speck  of  some- 
thing in  motion,  is  an  immense  mass-meeting. 
Look  sharper,  and  vou  will  see  a  mite  bran- 
dishing his  mandible's  in  an  excited  manner. 
That  is  the  great  Mr.  Soandso,  defining  his 
position  amid  tumultuous  and  irrepressible 
cheers.  That  infinitesimal  creature,  upon 
whom  some  score  of  others,  as  minute  as  he, 
are  gazing  m  open-mouthed  admiration,  is  a 
famous  philosopher,  expounding  to  a  select 
audience   their    capacity    for   the    Infinite. 


2o6 


THE   BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


That  scarce  discernible  pufflet  of  smoke  and 
dust  is  a  revolution.  That  speck  there  is  a 
reformer,  just  arranging  the  lever  with  which 
he  is  to  move  the  world.  And  lo,  there  creeps 
forward  the  shadow  of  a  skeleton  that  blows 
one  breath  between  its  grinning  teeth,  and  all 
our  distinguished  actors  are  whisked  off  the 
slippery  stage  into  the  dark  Beyond. 

"  Ves,  the  little  show-box  has  its  solemner 
suggestions.  Now  and  then  we  catch  a 
glimpse  of  a  grim  old  man,  who  lays  down  a 
scythe  and  hour-glass  in  the  corner  while  he 
shifts  the  scenes.  There,  too,  in  the  dim 
background,  a  weird  shape  is  ever  delving. 
Sometimes  he  leans  upon  his  mattock,  and 
gazes,  as  a  coach  whirls  by,  bearing  the 
newly  married  on  their  wedding  jaunt,  or 
glances  carelessly  at  a  babe  brought  home 
from  christening.  Suddenly  (for  the  scene 
grows  larger  and  larger  as  we  look)  a  bony 
hand  snatches  back  a  performer  in  the  midst 
of  his  part,  and  him,  whom  yesterday  two  in- 
finities (past  and  future)  would  not  suffice,  a 
handful  of  dust  is  enough  to  cover  and  silence 
forever.  Nay,  we  see  the  same  fieshless  fin- 
gers opening  to  clutch  the  showman  himself, 
and  guess,  not  without  a  shudder,  that  they 
are  lying  in  wait  for  spectator  also. 

"  Think  of  it :  for  three  dollars  a  year  I  buy 
a  season-ticket  to  this  great  Globe  Theatre, 
for  which  God  would  write  the  dramas  (only 
that  we  like  farces,  spectacles,  and  the  trag- 
edies of  Apollyon  better),  whose  scene-shifter 
is  Time,  and  whose  curtain  is  rung  down  by 
Death. 

"  Such  thoughts  will  occur  to  me  sometimes 
as  I  am  tearing  off  the  wrapper  of  my  news- 
paper. Then  suddenly  that  otherwise  too 
often  vacant  sheet  becomes  invested  for  me 
with  a  strange  kind  of  awe.  Look  1  deaths 
and  marriages,  notices  of  inventions,  discov- 
eries, and  books,  lists  of  promotions,  of  killed, 
wounded,  and  missing,  news  of  fires,  acci- 
dents, of  sudden  wealth  and  as  sudden  pov- 
erty ;  —  I  hold  in  my  hand  the  ends  of  myriad 
invisible  electric  conductors,  along  which 
tremble  the  joys,  sorrows,  wrongs,  triumphs, 
hopes,  and  despairs  of  as  many  men  and  wo- 
men everywhere.  So  that  upon  that  mood 
of  mind  which  seems  to  isolate  me  from  man- 
kind as  a  spectator  of  their  puppet-pranks, 
another  supervenes,  in  which  I  feel  that  I, 
too,  unknown  and  unheard  of,  am  yet  of  some 
import  to  my  fellows.  For,  through  my 
newspaper  here;  do  not  families  take  pains  to 
send  me,  an  entire  stranger,  news  of  a  death 
among  them?  Are  not  nere  two  who  would 
have  me  know  of  their  marriage?  And, 
strangest  of  all,  is  not  this  singular  person 
anxious  to  have  me  informed  that  he  has  re- 
ceived a  fresh  supply  of  Dimitry  Bruisgins? 
But  to  none  of  us  does  the  Present  continue 
miraculous  (even  if  for  a  moment  discerned 
as  such).  We  glance  carelessly  at  the  sun- 
rise, and  get  used  to  Orion  and  the  Pleiades. 
The  wonder  wears  off,  and  to-inorrow  this 
sheet,  in  which  a  vision  was  let  down  to  uie 


from  Heaven,  shall  be  the  wrappage  to  a  bat 
of  soap  or  the  platter  for  a  beggar's  broken 
victuals."  — H.  W.] 


No.    VII. 


A    LETTER 

FROM  A  CANDIDATE  FOR  THE  PRESI- 
DENCY IN  ANSWER  TO  SUTTIN  QUES- 
TIONS PROPOSED  BY  MR.  HOSEA  BIG- 
I.OW,  INCLOSED  IN  A  NOTE  FROM  MR. 
BIGLOW  TO  S.  H.  GAY,  ESQ.,  EDITOR 
OF  THE  NATIONAL  ANTI-SLAVERY 
STANDARD. 

[CURIOSITY  may  be  said  to  be  the  quality 
which  pre-eminently  distinguishes  and  segre- 
gates man  from  the  lower  animals.  As  we 
trace  the  scale  of  animated  nature  down- 
ward, we  find  this  faculty  (as  it  may  truly  be 
called)  of  the  mind  diminished  in  the  savage, 
and  quite  extinct  in  the  brute.  The  first  ob- 
ject which  civilized  man  proposes  to  himself  I 
take  to  be  the  finding  out  whatsoever  he  can 
concerning  his  neighbors.  Nihil  humanum 
a  me  alieman  puto ;  I  am  curious  about 
even  John  Smith .  The  desire  next  in  strength 
to  this  (an  opposite  pole,  indeed,  of  the  same 
magnet)  is  that  of  communicating  the  unin- 
telhgence  we  have  carefully  picked  up. 

Men  in  general  may  be  divided  into  the  in- 
quisitive and  the  communicative.  To  the 
first  class  belong  Peeping  Toms,  eaves-drop- 
pers, navel-contemplating  Brahmins,  meta- 
physicians, travellers,  Empedocleses,  spies, 
the  various  societies  for  promoting  Rhino- 
thism,  Columbuses,  Yankees,  discoverers, 
and  men  of  science,  who  present  themselves 
to  the  mind  as  so  many  marks  of  interroga- 
tion wandering  up  and  down  the  world,  or 
sitting  in  studies  and  laboratories  The  sec- 
ond class  I  should  again  subdivide  into  four. 
In  the  first  subdivision  I  would  rank  those 
who  have  an  itch  to  tell  us  about  themselves, 
—  as  keepers  of  diaries,  insignificant  persons 
generally,  Montaignes,  Horace  Walpoles, 
autcbiographers,  poets.  The  second  in- 
cludes those  who  are  anxious  to  impart  infor- 
mation concerning  other  people, — as  histo- 
rians, barbers,  and  such.  To  the  third  be- 
long those  who  labor  to  give  us  intelligence 
about  nothing  at  all, — as  novelists,  political 
orators,  the  large  majority  of  authors,  preach- 
ers, lecturers,  and  the  like.  In  the  fourth 
come  those  who  are  communicative  from  mo- 
tives of  public  benevolence,  —  as  finders  of 
mares'-nests  and  bringers  of  ill  news.  Each 
of  us  two-legged  fowls  without  feathers  em- 
braces all  these  subdivisions  in  himself  to  a 
greater  or  less  dektree.  for  none   of  us  s» 


THE  BIGLOIV  PAPERS. 


207 


much  as  lays  an  egg,  or  incubates  a  chalk 
one,  but  straightway  the  whole  barnyard 
shall  know  it  by  our  cackle  or  our  cluck. 
Omnibus  hoc  vitium  est.  There  are  differ- 
ent  grades  in  all  these  classes.  One  will  turn 
his  telescope  toward  a  back-yard,  another 
toward  Uranus ;  one  will  tell  you  that  he 
dined  with  Smith,  another  that  he  supped 
with  Plato.  In  one  particular,  all  men  may 
be  considered  as  belonging  to  the  first  grand 
division,  inasmuch  as  they  all  seem  equally 
desirous  of  discovering  the  mote  in  their 
neighbor's  eye. 

To  one  or  another  of  these  species  every 
human  being  may  safely  be  referred.  I  think 
it  beyond  a  peradventure  that  Jonah  prose- 
cuted some  inquiries  into  the  digestive  appa- 
ratus of  whales,  and  that  Noah  sealed  up  a 
letter  in  an  empty  bottle,  that  news  in  regard 
to  him  might  not  be  wanting  in  case  of  the 
worst.  They  had  else  been  super  or  subter 
human.  I  conceive,  also,  that,  as  there  are 
certain  persons  who  continually  peep  and  pry 
at  the  key-hole  of  that  mysterious  door 
through  which,  sooner  or  later,  we  all  make 
our  exits,  so  there  are  doubtless  ghosts  fidget- 
ing and  fretting  on  the  other  side  of  it,  be- 
cause they  have  no  means  of  conveying  back 
to  this  world  the  scraps  of  news  they  have 
picked  up  in  that.  For  there  is  an  answer 
ready  somewhere  to  every  question,  the  great 
law  of  give  and  take  runs  through  all  nature, 
and  if  we  see  a  hook,  we  may  be  sure  that  an 
eye  is  waiting  for  it.  I  read  in  every  face  I 
meet  a  standing  advertisement  of  informa- 
tion wanted  in  regard  to  A.  B.,  or  that  the 
friends  of  C.  D.  can  hear  something  to  his 
disadvantage  by  application  to  such  a  one. 

It  was  to  gratify  the  two  great  passions  of 
asking  and  answering  that  epistolary  corre- 
spondence was  first  invented.  Letters  (for 
by  this  usurped  title  epistles  are  now  com- 
monly known)  are  of  several  kinds.  First, 
there  are  those  which  are  not  letters  at  all,  — 
as  letters-patent.  letters  dimissory,  letters  en- 
closing bills,  letters  of  administration,  Pliny's 
letters,  letters  of  diplomacy,  of  Cato,  of 
Mentor,  of  Lords  Lyttelton,  Chesterfield,  and 
Orrery,  of  Jacob  Behmen,  Seneca  (whom  St. 
Jerome  includes  in  his  list  of  sacred  writers), 
letters  from  abroad,  from  sons  in  college  to 
their  fathers,  letters  of  marque,  and  letters 
generally,  which  are  in  no  wise  letters  of 
mark.  Second,  are  real  letters,  such  as  those 
of  Gray,  Cowper,  Walpole,  Howel,  LamD, 
D.  Y.,  the  first  letters  from  children  (printed 
in  staggering  capitals).  Letters  from  New 
York,  letters  of  credit,  and  others,  interesting 
for  the  sake  of  the  writer  or  the  thing  writ- 
ten. I  have  read  also  letters  from  Europe  by 
a  gentleman  named  Pinto,  containing  some 
curious  gossip,  and  which  I  hope  to  see  col- 
lected for  the  benefit  of  the  curious.  There 
are,besides.  letters  addressed  to  posterity,  — 
as  epitaphs,  for  example,  written  for  their 
own  monuments  by  monarchs,  whereby  we 
bave  lately  become  possessed  of  the  names 


of  several  great  conquerors  and  kings  ol 
kings,  hitherto  unheard  of  and  still  unpro- 
nounceable, but  valuable  to  the  student  of 
the  entirely  dark  ages.  The  letter  which  St. 
Peter  sent  to  King  Pepin  in  the  year  of  grace 
755,  that  of  the  Virgin  to  the  magistrates  of 
Messina,  that  of  St.  Gregory  Thauniatur^us 
to  the  D— 1,  and  that  of  this  last-mentioned 
active  police-magistrate  to  a  nun  of  Girgenti, 
I  would  place  in  a  class  by  themselves,  as 
also  the  letters  of  candidates,  concerning 
which  1  shall  dilate  more  fully  in  a  note  at 
the  end  of  the  following  poem.  At  present, 
sat  prata  bibertiut.  Only,  concerning  the 
shape  of  letters,  they  are  all  either  square  or 
oblong,  to  which  general  figures  circular  let- 
ters and  round-robins  also  conform  them- 
selves. —  H.  W.J 

Deer  sir  its  gut  to  be  the  fashun 
now  to  rite  letters  to  the  candid  8s  and 
i  wus  chose  at  a  publick  Meetin  in 
Jaalam  to  du  wut  wus  nessary  fur  that 
town,  i  writ  to  271  ginerals  and  gut 
ansers  to  209.  tha  air  called  candid  8s 
but  I  don't  see  nothin  candid  about 
'em  this  here  1  wich  I  send  wus 
thought  satty's  factory.  I  dunno  as  it 's 
ushle  to  print  Poscnps,  but  as  all  the 
ansers  I  got  hed  the  saim,  I  sposed  it 
wus  best,  times  has  gretly  changed. 
Formaly  to  knock  a  man  into  a  cocked 
hat  wus  to  use  him  up,  but  now  it  ony 
gives  him  a  chance  fur  the  cheef  mad- 
gustracy.  —  H.  B. 

Dear   Sir, — You  wish  to  know  my 
notions 

On  sartin  pints  thet  rile  the  land  ; 
There  's  nothin'  thet  my  natur  so  shuns 

Ez  bein'  mum  or  underhand  ; 
I  'm  a  straight-spoken  kind  o'  creetur 

Thet   blurts  right   out  wut's  in   hi* 
head, 
An'  ef  I  've  one  pecooler  feetur, 

It  is  a  nose  thet  wunt  be  led. 

So,  to  begin  at  the  beginnin', 

An'  come  direcly  to  the  pint, 
I  think  the  country's  underpinnin' 

Is  some  consid'ble  out  o'  jint  ; 
I  aint  agoin'  to  try  your  patience 

By  tellin'  who  done  this  or  thet, 
I  don't  make  no  insinooations, 

I  jest  let  on  I  smell  a  rat. 

Thet  is,  I  mean,  it  seems  to  me  so, 
But,  ef  the  public  think  I  'm  wrong 


2o8 


THE   B I  GLOW  PAPERS. 


I  wunt  deny  but  wut  I  be  so, — 

An',  fact,  it  don't  smell  very  strong  : 

My  mind  's  tu  fair  to  lose  its  balance 
An'  say  wich  party  hez  most  sense  ; 

There  may  be  folks  o'  greater  talence 
Thet  can't  set  stiddier  on  the  fence. 

I  'm  an  eclectic  ;  ez  to  choosin' 
'Twixt   this   an'    thet,    I  'in    plaguy 
lawth  ; 
I  leave  a  side  thet  looks  like  losin', 
But  (wile  there's  doubt)  1   stick  to 
both; 
I  stan'  upon  the  Constitution, 

Ez  preudunt  statesmun  say,  who  've 
planned 
A  way  to  git  the  most  profusion 
O'  chances  ez  to  ware  they  '11  stand. 

Ez  fer  the  war,  I  go  agin  it,  — 

I  mean  to  say  I  kind  o'  du,  — 
Thet  is,  I  mean  thet,  bein'  in  it, 

The  best  way  wuz  to  fight  it  thru  ; 
Not  but  wut  abstract  war  is  horrid, 

I  sign  to  thet  with  all  my  heart,  — 
But  civlyzation  doos  git  forrid 

Sometimes  upon  a  powder-cart. 

About  thet  darned  Proviso  matter 

I  never  bed  a  grain  o'  doubt, 
Nor  I  aint  one  my  sense  to  scatter 

So  'st  no  one  could  n't  pick  it  out ; 
My  love  fer  North  an'  South  is  equil, 

So  I  'II  jest  answerplump  an'  frank, — 
No  matter  wut  may  be  the  sequil, — 

Yes,  Sir,  I  am  agin  a  Bank. 

Ez  to  the  answerin'  o'  questions, 

I  'm  an  off  ox  at  bein'  druv, 
Though  I  aint  one  thet  ary  test  shuns 

'11  give  our  folks  a  helpin'  shove ; 
Kind  o'  promiscoous  I  go  it 

Fer  the  holl  country,  an'  the  ground 
I  take,  ez  nigh  ez  I  can  show  it, 

Is  pooty  gen'ally  all  round. 

I  don't  appruve  o'  givin'  pledges  ; 

You  'd  ough'  to  leave  a  feller  free, 
An'  not  go  knockin'  out  the  wedges 

To  ketch  his  fingers  in  the  tree ; 
Pledges  air  awfle  breachy  cattle 

Thet   preudunt   farmers   don't    turn 
out,  — 
Ez  long  'z  the  people  git  their  rattle, 

Wut  is  there  fer  'm  to  grout  about  ? 


Ez  to  the  slaves,  there 's  no  confusion 

In  my  idees  consarnin'  them, — 
/  thuik  they  air  an  Institution, 

A  sort  of — yes,  jest  so,  — ahem  : 
Do  /  own  any  ?     Of  my  merit 

On  thet  pint  you  yourself  may  jedge; 
All  is,  I  never  drink  no  sperit, 

Nor  I  haint  never  signed  no  pledge. 

Ez  to  my  princerples,  I  glory 

In  hevin'  nothin'  o'  the  sort ; 
I  aint  a  Wig,  I  aint  a  Tory, 

I  'm  jest  a  candidate,  in  short  ; 
Thet 's  fair  an'  square  an'  parpendicler, 

But,  ef  the  Public  cares  a  fig 
To  hev  me  an'  thin'  in  particler, 

Wy,  1  'ni  a  kind  o'  peri-wig. 

P.  S. 

Ez  we  're  a  sort  o'  privateerin', 

O'  course,  you  know,  it 's  sheer  an 
sheer, 
An'  there  is  sutthin'  wuth  your  hearin' 

I  '11  mention  in  your  privit  ear  ; 
Ef  you  git  me  inside  the  White  House, 

Your  head  with  ile  I  '11  kin'  o'  'nint 
By  gittin'  you  inside  the  Light-house 

Down  to  the  eend  o'  Jaalam  Pint. 

An'  ez  the  North  hez  took  to  brustlin' 

At  bein'  scrouged  frum  off  the  roost, 
I  '11  tell  ye  wut '11  save  all  tusslin' 

An'  giveoursideaharnsome  boost,— 
Tell  'em  thet  on  the  Slavery  question 

I  'm  right,  although  to  speak  I  'm 
lawth  ; 
This  gives  you  a  safe  pint  to  rest  on, 

An'   leaves  me    frontin'    South    by 
North. 

[And  now  of  epistle";  candidatial,  which  are 
of  two  kinds.  —  namely,  letters  of  accept- 
ance, and  letters  definitive  of  position.  Our 
republic,  on  the  eve  of  an  election,  may  safe- 
ly enough  be  called  a  republic  of  letters. 
Epistolary  composition  becomes  then  an  epi- 
demic, which  seizes  one  candidate  after  am 
other,  not  seldom  cutting  short  the  thread  of 
political  life.  It  has  come  to  such  a  pass, 
that  a  party  dreads  less  the  attacks  of  its  op- 
ponents than  a  letter  from  its  candidate. 
Litera  scripta  fnanet,  and  it  will  go  hard  if 
something  bad  cannot  be  made  nf  it.  Gen- 
eral Harrison,  it  is  well  understood,  was  sur- 
rounded, during  his  candidacy,  with  the  cor- 
don sanitaire  of  a  vigilance  committee.     N« 


THE   B1GL0W  PAPERS. 


209 


prisoner  In  Spielberg  was  ever  more  cautious- 
ly deprived  of  writing  materials.  The  soot 
was  scraped  carefully  from  the  chimney- 
places  ;  outposts  of  expert  rifle-shooters 
rendered  it  sure  death  for  any  goose  (who 
:ame  clad  in  feathers)  to  approach  within  a 
certain  limited  distance  of  North  Bend  ;  and 
all  domestic  fowls  about  the  premises  were 
reduced  to  the  condition  of  Plato's  original 
man.  By  these  precautions  the  General  was 
saved.  Parva  componere  magnis,  I  re- 
member, that,  when  party-spirit  once  ran 
high  among  my  people,  upon  occasion  of  the 
choice  of  a  new  deacon,  I,  having  my  prefer- 
ences, yet  not  caring  too  openly  to  express 
them,  made  use  of  an  innocent  fraud  to  bring 
about  that  result  which  I  deemed  most  de- 
sirable. My  stratagem  was  no  other  than  the 
throwing  a  copy  of  the  Complete  Letter- 
Writer  in  the  way  of  the  candidate  whom  I 
wished  to  defeat.  He  caught  the  infection, 
and  addressed  a  short  note  to  his  constitu- 
ents, in  which  the  opposite  party  detected  so 
many  and  so  grave  improprieties  (he  had 
modelled  it  upon  the  letter  of  a  young  lady 
accepting  a  proposal  of  marriage),  that  he 
not  only  Tost  his  election,  but,  falling  under  a 
suspicion  of  Sabellianism  and  I  know  not 
what  (the  widow  Endive  assured  me  that  he 
was  a  Paralipomenon,  to  her  certain  knowl- 
edge), was  forced  to  leave  the  town.  Thus 
it  is  that  the  letter  killeth. 

The  object  which  candidates  propose  to 
themselves  in  writing  is  to  convey  no  mean- 
ing at  all.  And  here  is  a  quite  unsuspected 
pitfall  into  which  they  successively  plunge 
headlong.  For  it  is  precisely  in  such  crypto- 
graphies that  mankind  are  prone  to  seek  for 
and  find  a  wonderful  amount  and  variety  of 
significance.  Otnne  ignotum  pro  minfico. 
How  do  we  admire  at  the  antique  world 
striving  to  crack  those  oracular  nuts  from 
Delphi,  Hammon,  and  elsewhere,  in  only  one 
of  which  can  I  so  much  as  surmise  that  any 
kernel  had  ever  lodged  ;  that,  namely,  where- 
in Apollo  confessed  that  he  was  mortal. 
One  Didymus  is,  moreover,  related  to  have 
written  six  thousand  books  on  the  single 
subject  of  grammar,  a  topic  rendered  only 
more  tenebrific  by  the  labors  of  his  succes- 
sors, and  which  seems  still  to  possess  an  at- 
traction for  authors  in  proportion  as  they  can 
make  nothing  of  it.  A  singular  loadstone 
for  theologians,  also,  is  the  Beast  in  the 
Apocalypse,  whereof,  in  the  course  of  my 
studies,  I  have  noted  two  hundred  and  three 
Several  interpretations,  each  lethiferal  to  all 
the  rest.  Nok  nostrum  est  tantas  contponere 
lites,  yet  I  have  myself  ventured  upon  a  two 
hundred  and  fourth,  which  I  embodied  in  a 
discourse  preached  on  occasion  of  the  de- 
mise of  the  late  usurper,  Napoleon  Bona- 
parte, and  which  quieted,  in  a  large  meas- 
ure, the  minds  of  my  people.  It  is  true  that 
my  views  on  this  important  point  were  ar- 
dently controverted  by  Mr.  Shearjashub  Hol- 
rWn,  the  then  preceptor  of  our  academy, 
'4 


and  In  other  particulars  a  very  deserving  and 
sensible  young  man,  though  possessing  a 
somewhat  limited  knowledge  of  the  Greek 
tongue.  But  his  heresy  struck  down  no  deep 
root,  and,  he  having  been  lately  removed  by 
the  hand  of  Providence,  I  had  the  satisfaction 
of  reaffirming  my  cherished  sentiments  in  a 
sermon  preached  upon  the  Lord's  day  im- 
mediately succeeding  his  funeral.  This 
might  seem  like  taking  an  unfair  advantage, 
did  I  not  add  that  he  had  made  provision  in 
his  last  will  (being  celibate)  for  the  publica- 
tion of  a  posthumous  tractate  in  support  of 
his  own  dangerous  opinions. 

I  know  of  nothing  in  our  modern  times 
which  approaches  so  nearly  to  the  ancient 
oracle  as  the  letter  of  a  Presidential  candi- 
date. Now,  among  the  Greeks,  the  eating 
of  beans  was  strictly  forbioden  to  all  such  as 
had  it  in  mind  to  consult  those  expert  am- 
phibologists,  and  this  same  prohibition  on  the 
part  of  Pythagoras  to  his  disciples  is  under- 
stood to  imply  an  abstinence  from  politics, 
beans  having  been  used  as  ballots.  That 
other  explication,  quod  •videlicet  sensits  eo 
cibo  obtundi  cxistimaret,  though  supported 
pugniset  calcibus  by  many  of  the  learned, 
and  not  wanting  the  countenance  of  Cicero, 
is  confuted  by  the  larger  experience  of  New 
England.  On  the  whole,  I  think  it  safer  to 
apply  here  the  nile  of  intrepretation  which 
now  generally  obtains  in  regard  to  antique 
cosmogonies,  myths,  fables,  proverbial  ex- 
pressions, and  knotty  points  generally,  which 
is,  to  find  a  common-sense  meaning,  and  then 
select  whatever  can  be  imagined  the  most 
opposite  thereto.  In  this  way  we  arrive  at 
the  conclusion,  that  the  Greeks  objected  to 
the  questioning  of  candidates.  And  very 
properly,  if,  as  I  conceive,  the  chief  point  be 
not  to  discover  what  a  person  in  that  position 
is,  or  what  he  will  do,  but  whether  he  can  be 
elected.  Vos  exetnplaria  Grceca  nocturna 
versate  manu,  versate  diurna. 

But,  since  an  imitation  of  the  Greeks  in 
this  particular  (the  asking  of  questions  being 
one  chief  privilege  of  freemen)  is  hardly  to 
be  hoped  for,  and  our  candidates  will  an- 
swer, whether  they  are  questioned  or  not,  I 
would  recommend  that  these  ante-electionary 
dialogues  should  be  carried  on  by  symbols, 
as  were  the  diplomatic  correspondences  of 
the  Scythians  and  Macrobii.  or  confined  to 
the  language  of  signs,  like  the  famous  inter- 
view of  Panurge  and  Goatsnose.  A  candi- 
date might  then  convey  a  suitable  reply  to 
all  committees  of  inquiry  by  closing  one  eye, 
or  by  presenting  them  with  a  phial  of  Egyp- 
tian darkness  to  be  speculated  upon  by  their 
respective  constituencies.  These  answers 
would  be  susceptible  of  whatever  retrospec- 
tive construction  the  exigencies  of  the  polit- 
ical campaign  might  seem  to  demand,  and 
the  candidate  could  take  his  position  on 
either  side  of  the  fence  with  entire  consist- 
ency. Or,  if  letters  must  be  written,  profit- 
able use  might  be  made  of  the  Dighton  rock 


THE   BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


hieroglyphic  or  the  cuneiform  script,  every 
fresh  decipherer  of  which  is  enabled  to  educe 
a  different  meaning,  whereby  a  sculptured 
stone  or  two  supplies  us,  and  will  probably 
continue  to  supply  posterity,  with  a  very  vast 
and  various  body  of  authentic  history.  For 
even  the  briefest  epistle  in  the  ordinary 
chirography  is  dangerous.  There  is  scarce 
any  style  so  compressed  that  superfluous 
words  may  not  be  detected  in  it.  A  severe 
critic  might  curtail  that  famous  brevity  of 
Caesar's  by  two  thirds,  drawing  his  pen 
through  the  supererogatory  vend  and  twi. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  the  surest  footing  of  hope 
is  to  be  found  in  the  rapidly  increasing 
tendency  to  demand  less  and  less  of  qualifi- 
cation in  candidates.  Already  have  states- 
manship, experience,  and  the  possession  (nay, 
the  profession,  even)  of  principles  been  re- 
jected as  superfluous,  and  may  not  the  pa- 
triot reasonably  hope  that  the  ability  to  write 
will  follow?  At  present,  there  may  be  death 
in  pot-hooks  as  well  as  pots,  the  loop  of  a 
letter  may  suffice  for  a  bow-string,  and  all 
the  dreadful  heresies  of  Antislavery  may 
lurk  in  a  flourish.  —  H.  W.] 


No.    VIII. 

A  SECOND  LETTER  FROM  B.  SAWIN,  ESQ. 

[IN  the  following  epistle,  we  behold  Mr. 
Sawin  returning,  a  miles  emeritus,  to  the 
bosom  of  his  family.  Quantum  mutatus  ! 
The  good  Father  of  us  all  had  doubtless  in- 
trusted to  the  keeping  of  this  child  of  his  cer- 
tain faculties  of  a  constructive  kind.  He 
had  put  in  him  a  share  of  that  vital  force,  the 
nicest  economy  of  every  minute  atom  of 
which  is  necessary  to  the  perfect  develop- 
ment of  Humanity.  He  had  given  him  a 
brain  and  heart,  and  so  had  equipped  his 
soul  with  the  two  strong  wings  of  knowledge 
and  love,  whereby  it  can  mount  to  hang  its 
nest  under  the  eaves  of  heaven.  And  this 
child,  so  dowered,  he  had  intrusted  to  the 
keeping  of  his  vicar,  the  State.  How  stands 
the  account  of  that  stewardship  ?  The  State, 
or  Society  (call  her  by  what  name  you  will), 
had  taken  no  manner  of  thought  of  him  till 
she  saw  him  swept  out  into  the  street,  the 
pitiful  leavings  of  last  night's  debauch,  with 
cigar-ends,  lemon-parings,  tobacco-quids, 
slops,  vile  stenches,  and  the  whole  loathsome 
next-morning  of  the  bar-room,  —  an  own  child 
of  the  Almighty  God  I  I  remember  him  as 
he  was  brought  to  be  christened,  a  ruddy, 
rugged  babe ;  and  now  there  he  wallows, 
reeking,  seething,  —  the  dead  corpse,  not  of 
a  man,  but  of  a  soul, — a  putrefying  lump, 
horrible  for  the  life  that  is  in  it.  Comes  the 
wind  of  heaven,  that  good  Samaritan,  and 
parts  the  hair  upon  his  forehead,  nor  is  too 
nice  to  kisb  those  parched,  cracked  lips;  the 


morning  opens  upon  him  her  eyes  full  of  pity 
ing  sunshine,  the  sky  yearns  down  to  him,— 
and  there  he  lies  fermenting.  O  sleep !  let 
me  not  profane  thy  holy  name  by  calling  that 
stertorous  unconsciousness  a  slumber !  By 
and  by  comes  along  the  State,  God's  vicar. 
Does  she  say, —  "My  poor,  forlorn  foster- 
child  !  Behold  "here  a  force  which  1  will 
make  dig  and  plant  and  build  for  me  "  r  Not 
so,  but,  — "  Here  is  a  recruit  ready-made  to 
my  hand,  a  piece  of  destroying  energy  lying 
unprofitably  idle."  So  she  claps  an  ugly  gray 
suit  on  him,  puts  a  musket  in  his  grasp,  and 
sends  him  off,  with  Gubernatorial  and  other 
godspeeds,  to  do  duty  as  a  destroyer. 

1  made  one  of  the  crowd  at  the  last  Me- 
chanics' Fair,  and,  with  the  rest,  stood  gazing 
in  wonder  at  a  perfect  machine,  with  its  soul 
of  fire,  its  boiler-heart  that  sent  the  hot  blood 
pulsing  along  the  iron  arteries,  and  its  thews 
of  steel.  And  while  1  was  admiring  the 
adaptation  of  means  to  end,  the  harmonious 
involutions  of  contrivance,  and  the  never- 
bewildered  complexity,  I  saw  a  grimed  and 
greasy  fellow,  the  imperious  engine's  lackey 
and  drudge,  whose  sole  office  was  to  let  fall, 
at  intervals,  a  drop  or  two  of  oil  upon  a  cer- 
tain joint.  Then  my  soul  said  within  me, 
See  there  a  piece  of  mechanism  to  which 
that  other  you  marvel  at  is  but  as  the  rude 
first  effort  of  a  child,  —  a  force  which  not 
merely  suffices  to  set  a  few  wheels  in  motion, 
but  which  can  send  an  impulse  all  through 
the  infinite  future,  —  a  contrivance,  not  for 
turning  out  pins,  or  stitching  button-holes, 
but  for  making  Hamlets  and  Lears.  And 
yet  this  thing  of  iron  shall  be  housed,  waited 
on,  guarded  from  rust  and  dust,  and  it  shall 
be  a  crime  but  so  much  as  to  scratch  it  with 
a  pin  ;  while  the  other,  with  its  fire  of  God  in 
it,  shall  be  buffeted  hither  and  thither,  and 
finally  sent  carefully  a  thousand  miles  to  be 
the  target  for  a  Mexican  cannon-ball.  Un- 
thrifty Mother  State !  My  heart  burned 
within  me  for  pity  and  indignation,  and  I 
renewed  this  covenant  with  my  own  soul,  —  ht 
aliis  mansuetus  cro,  at,  in  btasphemiis  con* 
tra  Christum,  non  ita.  —  H.  W.] 

I  spose  you  wonder  ware  I  be  ;  I  can't 

tell,  fer  the  soul  o'  me, 
Exacly  ware  I  be  myself,  —  meanin'  by 

thet  the  holl  o*  me. 
Wen  I  left  hum,    I  hed  two  legs,  an* 

they  worn't  bad  ones  neither, 
(The  scaliest  trick  they  ever  played  wuz 

bringin'  on  me  hither,) 
Now  one  on  'em's  I  dunno  ware;  — 

they  thought  I  wuz  adyin\ 
An*  sawed  it  ofTbecause  they  said  't  wuz 

kin'  o'  mortifyin'  ; 
I  'm  willin'  to  believe  it  wuz,  an  yit  I 

don't  see,  nuther, 


THE  D1GLOVV  PAPERS. 


Wy  one  should  take  to  feelin'  cheap  a 

minnit  sooner  'n  t'  other, 
Sence  botli  wuz  equilly  to  blame  ;  but 

things  is  ez  they  be  ; 
It  took  on  so  they  took  it  off,  an'  thet  's 

enough  fer  me  : 
There  's  one  good  thing,  though,  to  be 

said  about  my  wooden  new  one, — 
The  liquor  can't  git  into  it  ez  't  used  to 

in  the  true  one  ; 
So  it  saves  drink  ;  an'  then,  besides,  a 

feller  couldn't  beg 
A  gretter  blessin'  then  to  hev  one  oilers 

sober  peg ; 
It 's  true   a  chap 's  in  want  o'  two  fer 

follerin'  a  drum, 
Rut  all  the  march  1  'm  up  to  now  is  jest 

to  Kingdom  Come. 

]  've  lost  one  eye,  but  thet 's  a  loss  it 's 

easy  to  supply 
Out  o'  the  glory  that  I  've  gut,  fer  thet 

is  all  my  eye  ; 
An*  one   is  big   enough,   I   guess,  by 

diligently  usin'  it, 
To  see  all  I  shall  ever  git  by  way  o'  pay 

fer  losin'  it ; 
Off  cers,  I  notice,  who  git  paid  fer  all 

our  thumps  an'  kickins, 
Pu  wal  by  keepin'  single  eyes  arter  the 

fattest  pickins ; 
So,  ez  the  eye 's  put  fairly  out,  I  '11  lam 

to  go  without  it, 
An'  not  allow  myself  to  be  no  gret  put 

out  about  it. 
Now,  le'  me  see,  thet  isn't  all ;  I  used, 

'fore  leavin'  Jaalam, 
To  count  things  on  my  finger-eends, 

but  sutthin'  seems  to  ail  'em  : 
Ware  's  my  left  hand  ?     O,  darn  it,  yes, 

I  recollect  wut  's  come  on  't ; 
I  haint  no  left  arm  but  my  right,   an' 

thet 's  gut  jest  a  thumb  on  't ; 
It  aint  so  hendy  ez  it  wuz  to  cal'late  a 

sum  on  't. 
I've   hed    some  ribs    broke,  —  six   (I 

b'lieve),  —  I    haint  kep'  no  ac- 
count on  'em  ; 
Wen  pensions  git  to  be  the  talk,   I  Ml 

settle  the  amount  on  'em. 
An'  now   I  'm  speakin'   about  ribs,  it 

kin'  o'  brings  to  mind 
One  thet  I  could  n't  never  break,  —  the 

one  I  lef  behind  ; 


Ef  you  should  see  her,  jest  clear  out  the 

spout  o'  your  invention 
An'  pour  the  longest  sweetnin'  in  about 

an  annooal  pension, 
An'  kin'  o'  hint  (in  case,  you  know,  the 

critter  should  retuse  to  be 
Consoled)  I   aint  so  'xpensive  now  to 

keep  ez  wut  I  used  to  be  ; 
There  's  one  arm  less,  ditto  one  eye, 

an'  then  the  leg  thet 's  wooden 
Can  be  took  off  an'  sot  away  wenever 

ther's  a  puddin'. 


I  spose  you  think  I  'm  comin'  back  ez 

opperlunt  ez  thunder, 
With  shiploads  o'  gold  images  an'  varus 

sorts  o'  plunder ; 
Wal,  'fore  I  vullinteered,  I  thought  this 

country  wuz  a  sort  o' 
Canaan,  a  reg'lar  Promised  Land  flowin' 

with  rum  an'  water, 
Ware  propaty    growed    up   like  time, 

without  no  cultivation, 
An'  gold  wuz  dug  ez  taters  be  among 

our  Yankee  nation. 
Ware  nateral  advantages  were  pufficly 

amazin', 
Ware  every  rock  there  wuz  about  with 

precious  stuns  wuz  blazin', 
Ware  mill-sites  filled  the  country  up  ez 

thick  ez  you  could  cram  'em, 
An'  desput  rivers  run  about  abeggin' 

folks  to  dam  'em  : 
Then    there    were    meetinhouses,    tu, 

chockful  o'  gold  an'  silver 
Thet  you  could  take,  an'  no  one  could  n't 

hand  ye  in  no  bill  fer  ;  — 
Thet 's  wut   I   thought  afore  I  went, 

thet 's  wut  them  fellers  told  us 
Thet  stayed  to  hum  an'  speechified  an' 

to  the  buzzards  sold  us  ; 
I  thought  thet  gold  mines  could  be  gut 

cheaper  than  Chiny  asters, 
An'  see  myself  acomin'  back  like  «ixty 

Jacob  Astors ; 
But  sech  idees  soon  melted  down  an' 

didn't  leave  a  grease-spot  ; 
I  vow   my  holl    sheer    o'    the    spiles 

would  n't  come  nigh  a  V  spot : 
Although,  most  anywares  we've  ben, 

you  needn't  break  no  locks, 
Nor  run  no  kin'  o'  risks,  to  fill   your 

pocket  full  o'  rocks. 


THE   BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


I  guess  I  mentioned  in  my  last  some  o' 

the  nateral  feeturs 
O'  this  all-fiered  buggy  hole  in  th'  way 

o'  awfle  creeturs, 
But  I  fergut  to  name    new  things  to 

speak  on  so  abounded) 
How  one  day  you  '11  most  die  o'  thust, 

an'  'fore  the  next  git  drownded. 
The  clymit  seems  to  me  jest  like  a  tea- 
pot made  o'  pewter 
Our  Prudence  hed,  thet  wouldn't  pour 

(all  she  could  du)  to  suit  her  ; 
Fust  place  the  leaves  'ould  choke   the 

spout,  so  's not  a  drop  'ould  dreen 

out, 
Then  Prude  'ould   tip  an'  tip   an'   tip, 

till  the  holl  kit  bust  clean  out, 
The    kiver-hinge-pin    bein'    lost,   tea- 
leaves  an'  tea  an'  kiver 
'ould    all    come    down   kerswosh !   ez 

though  the  dam  broke  in  a  river. 
Jest   so 't  is  here;    holl  months   there 

aint  a  day  o'  rainy  weather, 
An' jest  ez  th'  officers  'ould  be  alayin' 

heads  together 
Ez  t'  how  they  'd   mix   their  drink  at 

sech  a  milingtary  deepot,  — 
'T  'ould  pour  ez  though  the  lid  wuz  off 

the  everlastin'  teapot. 
The  cons'quence  is,  thet  I  shall  take, 

wen  I  'm  allowed  to  leave  here, 
One  piece  o'  propaty  along,  —  an'  thet 's 

the  shakin'  fever; 
It'sreggilar  employment,  though,  an' 

thet  aint  thought  to  harm  one, 
Nor  't  aint  so  tiresome  ez  it  wuz  with 

t'  other  leg  an'  arm  on  ; 
An'  it 's  a  consolation,  tu,  although  it 

doos  n't  pay, 
To  hev  it  said  you  're  some  gret  shakes 

in  any  kin'  o'  way. 
'Tworn't  very  long,    I    tell   ye  wirt,  I 

thought  o'  fortin-makin',  — 
One  day  a  reg'lar  shiver-de-freeze,  an' 

next  ez  good  ez  bakin',  — 
One   day   abrilin'    in    the   sand,    then 

smoth'rin'  in  the  mashes,  — 
Git  up  all  sound,  be  put  to  bed  a  mess 

o'  hacks  an'  smashes. 
But  then,  thinks  I,  at  any  rate  there  's 

glory  to  be  hed,  — 
Thet 's  an   investment,    arter  all,  thet 

may  n't  turn  out  so  bad  ; 
But  somehow,  wen  we  'd  fit  an'  licked, 

I  oilers  found  the  thanks 


Gut  kin'  o'  lodged  afore  they  come  ez 

low  down  ez  the  ranks  ; 
The  Gin'rals  gut  the  biggest  sheer,  the 

Cunnles  next,  an'  so  on,  — 
We  never  gut  a  blasted  mite  o'  glory 

ez  I  know  on  ; 
An'  spose  we  hed,  1  wonder  how  you  're 

goin'  to  contrive  its 
Division  so  's  to  give  a  piece  to  twenty 

thousand  privits ; 
Ef  you  should  multiply  by  ten  the  por- 
tion o'  the  brav'st  one, 
You  would  n't  git  more  'n  half  enough 

to  speak  of  on  a  grave-stun  ; 
We  git  the  licks, —  we  're  jest  the  grist 

thet 's  put  into  War's  hoppers  ; 
Leftenants    is    the   lowest  grade   thet 

helps  pick  up  the  coppers. 
It  may  suit  folks  thet  go  agin  a  body 

with  a  soul  in  't, 
An'  aint  contented  with  a  hide  without 

a  bagnet  hole  in  't ; 
But  glory  is  a  kin'  o'  thing  /  sha' n't 

pursue  no  furder, 
Coz  thet  's  the   off' cers   parquisite,  — 

yourn  's  on'y  jest  the  murder. 

Wal,  arter  I  gin  glory  up,  thinks  I  at 

least  there  's  one 
Thing  in  the  bills  we  aint  hed  yit,  an' 

thet 's  the  glorious  fun  ; 
Ef  once  we  git   to   Mexico,  we  fairly 

may  persume  we 
All  day  an'  night  shall  revel  in  the  halls 

o'  Montezumy. 
I  '11  tell  ye  wut  my  revels  wuz,  an'  see 

how  you  would  like  'ein  ; 
We  never  gut  inside  the  hall  :  the  nigh- 

est  ever  /  come 
Wuz  stan'in'  sentry  in   the  sun  (an', 

fact,  it  seemed 'a  cent'ry) 
A  ketchin'  smells  o'  biled  an'  roast  thet 

come  out  thru  the  entry, 
An'    hearin'  ez   I    sweltered   thru   my 

passes  an'  repasses, 
A   rat-tat-too   o'   knives    an'   forks,   a 

clinktv-clink  o'  glasses : 
I  can't  tell  off  the  bill  o'  fare  the  Gin'- 
rals hed  inside  ; 
All   I  know  is,  thet  out  o'  doors  a  pair 

o'  soles  wuz  fried, 
An'   not   a  hunderd   miles   away  frum 

ware  this  child  wuz  posted, 
A  Massachusetts  citizen  wuz  baked  an' 

biled  an'  roasted  ; 


THE   BIGLOIV  PAPERS. 


J'3 


The  on'y  thing  like  revellin'  thet  ever 

come  to  me 
Wuz  bein'  routed  out  o'  sleep  by  thet 

darned  revelee. 


They  say  the  quarrel  's  settled  now  ;  fer 

my  part  I  've  some  doubt  on  't, 
'T'll  take  more  fish-skin  than  folks  think 

to  take  the  rile  clean  out  on  't  ; 
At  any  rate,  I  'm  so  used  up  I  can't  do 

no  more  fightin', 
The  on'y  chance  thet 's  left  to  me  is 

politics  or  writin'  ; 
Now,  ez  the  people  's  gut  to  hev  a  mil- 

ingtary  man, 
An'  I  aint  nothin'  else  jest  now,  I  've 

hit  upon  a  plan  ; 
The  can'idatin'  line,  you  know,  'ould 

suit  me  to  a  T, 
An'  ef  I  lose,  'twunt  hurt  my  ears  to 

lodge  another  flea  ; 
So  I  '11  set  up  ez  can'idate  fer  any  kin' 

o'  office, 
(I  mean  fer  any  thet  includes  good  easy- 
cheers  an'  soffies ; 
Fer   ez   tu   runnin'    fer  a  place   ware 

work  's  the  time  o'  day, 
You  know  thet 's  wut  I  never  did,  — 

except  the  other  way  ;) 
Ef  it 's  the  Presidential  cheer  fer  wich 

I  'd  better  run, 
Wut  two   legs  anywares   about   could 

keep  up  with  my  one  ? 
There  aint  no  kin'  o'  quality  in  can'i- 

dates,  it 's  said, 
So  useful  ez  a  wooden  leg,  —  except  a 

wooden  head  ; 
There 's  nothin'  aint  so  poppylar —  (wy, 

it 's  a  parfect  sin 
To  think  wut  Mexico  hez  paid  fer  Santy 

Anny's  pin  ;)  — 
Then  I  haint  gut  no  princerples,  an', 

sence  I  wuz  knee-high, 
I  never  did  hev  any  gret,  ez  you  can 

testify  ; 
I  'm  a  decided  peace-man,  tu,  an'  go 

agin  the  war,  — 
Fer  now  the  holl  on  't  's  gone  an'  past, 

wut  is  there  to  go  for  ? 
Ef,   wile   you  're   'lectioneerin'   round, 

some  curus  chaps  should  beg 
To  know  my  views  o'  state  affairs,  jest 

answer  wooden  leg  I 


Ef  they  aint  settisfied  with  thet,  an'  kin* 

o'  pry  an'  doubt 
An'  ax  fer   sutthin'   deffynit,   jest   say 

ONE   EYE    TUT   OUT  ! 

Thet  kin'  o'  talk  1  guess  you  '11  find  '11 

answer  to  a  charm, 
An'  wen  you  're  druv  tu  nigh  the  wall, 

hoi'  up  my  missin'  arm  ; 
Ef  they  should  nose  round  fer  a  pledge, 

put  on  a  vartoous  look 
An'   tell   'em   thet 's   percisely   wut   I 

never  gin  nor  —  took  1 

Then  you  can  call  me  "Timbertoes," 

—  thet 's  wut  the  people  likes  ; 
Sutthin'   combinin'    morril    truth   with 

phrases  sech  ez  strikes  ; 
Some  say  the  people 's  fond  o'  this,  or 

thet,  or  wut  you  please,  — 
I  tell  ye  wut  the  people  want  is  jest  cor- 
rect idees  ; 
"  Old  Timbertoes,"  you  see,  's  a  creed 

it 's  safe  to  be  quite  bold  on, 
There  's  nothin'  in  't  the  other  side  can 

any  ways  git  hold  on  ; 
It's  a  good  tangible  idee,  a  sutthin'  to 

embody 
Thet  valooable  class  o'  men  who  look 

thru  brandy-toddy ; 
It  gives  a  Party  Platform,  tu,  jest  level 

with  the  mind 
Of  all  right-thinkin',  honest  folks  thet 

mean  to  go  it  blind  ; 
Then  there  air  other  good  hooraws  to 

dror  on  ez  you  need  'em, 
Sech  ez  the  one-eyed  Slarterer,  the 

BLOODY  BlRDOFREDUM  \ 

Them  's  wut  takes  hold  o'  folks  thet 
think,  ez  well  ez  o'  the  masses, 

An'  makes  you  sartin  o'  the  aid  o'  good 
men  of  all  classes. 

There  's  one  thing  I  'm  in  doubt  about ; 
in  order  to  be  Presidunt, 

It 's  absolutely  ne'ssary  to  be  a  South- 
ern residunt  ; 

The  Constitution  settles  thet,  an'  also 
thet  a  feller 

Must  own  a  nigger  o'  some  sort,  jet 
black,  or  brown,  or  yeller. 

Now  I  haint  no  objections  agin  par- 
ticklar  climes, 

Nor  agin  ownin'  anythin'  (except  the 
truth  sometimes), 


"4 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


But,  ez  I  haint  no  capital,   up  there 

among  ye,  maybe, 
You  might  raise  funds  enough  fer  me  to 

buy  a  low-priced  baby, 
An*  then   to  suit   the   No'thern  folks, 

who  feel  obleeged  to  say 
They  hate  an*  cuss  the  very  thing  they 

vote  fer  every  day, 
Say  you  're  assured  I  go  full  butt   fer 

Libbaty's  diffusion 
An'  made  the  purchis  on'y  jest  to  spite 

the  Institootion  ;  — 
But,  golly  !  there  's  the  currier's  hoss 

upon  the  pavement  pawinM 
I  '11  be  more  'xplicit  in  my  next. 

Yourn, 

BIRDOFREDUM  SAWIN. 


[We  have  now  a  tolerably  fair  chance  of  es- 
timating how  the  balance-sheet  stands  be- 
tween our  returned  volunteer  and  glory.  Sup- 
posing the  entries  to  be  set  down  on  both 
sides  of  the  account  in  fractional  parts  of  one 
hundred,  we  shall  arrive  at  something  like 
the  following  result :  — 

B.  SAWIN,  Esq.,  in  account  with  (BLANK) 

Glory. 

Cr.  Dr. 

By  loss  of  one  leg,  20     To  one  675th  three 
"     do.     one  arm,  15  cheers  in  Fan- 

"     do.      four    fin-  euil    Hall,    .    30 

gers,      .  5      "       do.      do.    on 

**     do.     one  eye,  10  occasion         of 

11    the  breaking  of  presentation  of 

six  ribs,        .       6  sword   to    Col- 

"    having  served  onel   Wright,    25 

under  Colonel  "    one      suit       of 

Cushing      one  gray       clothes 

month,        .      44  (ingeniouslyun- 

becoming),    .    15 
**    musical    enter- 
tainments (drum 
and     fife      six 
months),     .     .     5 
**    one  dinnerafter 

return,      .      .       1 
"    chance  of  pen- 
sion,        .        .    1 
"    privilege  of 

drawing  long- 
bow during  rest 
of  natural  life,  23 


E.  E. 

Tt  would  appear  that  Mr.  Sawin  found  the 
actual  feast  curiously  the  reverse  of  the  bill 
of  fare  advertised  in  Faneuil  Hall  and  other 
places.  His  primary  object  seems  to  have 
£>e«n  the  making  of  his  fortune.     Qu&rtnda 


pccunia  primttm,  virtus  Post  nummos.  He 
hoisted  sail  for  Eldorado,  and  shipwrecked 
on  Point  Tribulation.  Quid  non  mortalia 
pectora  cogis,  auri  sacra  fames  ?  The  spec- 
ulation has  sometimes  crossed  my  mind,  in 
that  dreary  interval  of  drought  which  inter- 
venes between  quarterly  stipendiary  showers, 
that  Providence,  by  the  creation  of  a  money- 
tree,  might  have  simplified  wonderfully  the 
sometimes  perplexing  problem  01  human  life. 
We  read  of  bread-trees,  the  butter  for  which 
lies  ready-churned  in  Irish  bogs.  Milk-trees 
we  are  assured  of  in  South  America,  and  stout 
Sir  John  Hawkins  testifies  to  water-trees  in 
the  Canaries.  Boot-trees  bear  abundantly 
in  Lynn  and  elsewhere  ;  and  I  have  seen,  in 
the  entries  of  the  wealthy,  hat-trees  with  a 
fair  show  of  fruit.  A  family-tree  I  once  cul- 
tivated myself,  and  found  therefrom  but  a 
scanty  yield,  and  that  quite  tasteless  and  in- 
nutritious.  Of  trees  bearing  men  we  are  not 
without  examples ;  as  those  in  the  park  of 
Louis  the  Eleventh  of  France.  Who  has 
forgotten,  moreover,  that  olive-tree,  growing 
in  the  Athenian's  back-garden,  with  its 
strange  uxorious  crop,  for  the  general  prop- 
agation of  which,  as  of  a  new  and  precious 
variety,  the  philosopher  Diogenes,  hitherto 
uninterested  m  arboriculture,  was  sozealous? 
In  the  sylva  of  our  own  Southern  States,  the 
females  of  my  family  have  called  my  attention 
to  the  china-tree.  Not  to  multiply  examples, 
1  will  barely  add  to  my  list  the  birch-tree,  in 
the  smaller  branches  of  which  has  been  im- 
planted so  miraculous  a  virtue  for  communi- 
cating the  Latin  and  Greek  languages,  and 
which  may  well,  therefore,  be  classed  among 
the  trees  producing  necessaries  of  life, — 
venerabile  donum  fatalis  i,irg&.  That 
money-trees  existed  in  the  golden  age  there 
want  not  prevalent  reasons  for  our  believing. 
For  does  not  the  old  proverb,  when  it  as- 
serts that  money  does  not  grow  on  every 
bush,  imply  a  fortiori  that  there  were  certain 
bushes  which  did  produce  tt?  Again,  there 
is  another  ancient  saw  to  the  effect  that 
money  is  the  root  of  all  evil.  From  which 
two  adages  it  may  be  safe  to  infer  that  the 
aforesaid  species  of  tree  first  degenerated 
into  a  shrub,  then  absconded  underground, 
and  finally,  in  our  iron  age,  vanished  alt<i- 
gether.  In  favorable  exposures  it  may  t  e 
conjectured  that  3  specimen  or  two  survived 
to  a  great  age,  as  in  the  garden  of  the  Kes- 
perides ;  and,  indeed,  what  else  could  that 
tree  in  the  Sixth  ^neid  have  been,  with  a 
branch  whereof  the  Trojan  hero  procured 
admission  to  a  territory,  for  the  entering  of 
which  money  is  a  surer  passport  than  to  a 
certain  other  more  profitable  (too)  foreign 
kingdom?  Whether  these  speculations  of 
mine  have  any  force  in  them,  or  whetner  they 
will  not  rather,  by  most  readers,  be  deemed 
impertinent  to  the  matter  in  hand,  is  a 
question  which  I  leave  to  the  determinatioa 
of  an  indulgent  posterity.  That  there  were, 
in  more  primitive  and  happier  times,  shops 


THE   BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


215 


where  money  was  sold,  —  and  that,  to#, 
on  credit  and  at  a  bargain,  —  I  take  to  be 
matter  of  demonstration.  For  what  but  a 
dealer  in  this  article  was  that  yEolus  who 
supplied  Ulysses  with  motive  power  for  his 
fleet  in  bags?  What  that  Ericus,  king  of 
Sweden,  who  is  said  to  have  kept  the  winds 
in  his  cap  T  what,  in  more  recent  times,  those 
Lapland  Nomas  who  traded  in  favorable 
breezes  r  AH  which  will  appear  the  more 
clearly  when  we  consider,  that,  even  to  this 
day,  raising  t/ie  wind  is  proverbial  for  rais- 
ing money,  rnd  that  brokers  and  banks  were 
invented  by  the  Venetians  at  a  later  period. 

And  now  for  the  improvement  of  this  di- 
gression. I  find  a  parallel  to  Mr.  Sawin's 
fortune  in  an  adventure  of  my  own.  For, 
shortly  after  I  had  first  broached  to  myself 
the  before-stated  natural-historical  and  ar- 
chaeological theories,  as  I  was  passing,  hcec 
negotia  penitns  mecutn  revo/vens,  through 
one  of  the  obscure  suburbs  of  our  New  Eng- 
land metropolis,  my  eye  was  attracted  by 
these  words  upon  a  sign-board, — CHEAP 
CASH-STORE.  Here  was  at  once  the  con- 
firmation of  my  speculations,  and  the  sub- 
stance of  my  hopes.  Here  lingered  the  frag- 
ment of  a  happier  past,  or  stretched  out  the 
first  tremulous  organic  filament  of  a  more  for- 
tunate future.  Thus  glowed  the  distant 
Mexico  to  the  eyes  of  Sawin,  as  he  looked 
through  the  dirty  pane  of  the  recruiting-office 
window,  or  speculated  from  the  summit  of 
that  mirage-Pisgah  which  the  imps  of  the 
bottle  are  so  cunning  in  raising  up.  Already 
had  my  AInaschar-fancy  (even  during  that 
first  half-believing  glance)  expended  in  vari- 
ous useful  directions  the  funds  to  be  obtained 
by  pledging  the  manuscript  of  a  proposed 
volume  of  discourses.  Already  did  a  clock 
ornament  the  tower  of  the  Jaalam  meeting- 
house, a  gift  appropriately,  but  modestly, 
commemorated  in  the  parish  and  town  rec- 
ords, both,  for  now  many  years,  kept  by  my- 
self. Already  had  my  son  Seneca  completed 
his  course  at  the  University.  Whether,  for 
the  moment,  we  may  not  be  considered  as 
actually  lording  it  over  those  Baratarias  with 
the  viceroyalty  of  which  Hope  invests  us, 
and  whether  we  are  ever  so  warmly  housed 
as  in  ou*-  Spanish  castles,  would  afford  mat- 
ter of  argument.  Enough  that  1  found  that 
siyn-board  to  be  no  other  than  a  bait  to  the 
trap  of  a  decayed  grocer.  Nevertheless, 
I  bought  a  pound  of  dates  (getting  short 
weight  by  reason  of  immense  flights  of  harpy 
flies  who  pursued  and  lighted  upon  their 
prey  even  in  the  very  scales),  which  purchase 
I  made,  not  only  with  an  eye  to  the  little  ones 
at  home,  but  also  as  a  figurative  reproof  of 
that  too  frequent  habit  of  my  mind,  which, 
forgetting  the  due  order  of  chronology,  will 
often  persuade  me  that  the  happy  sceptre 
of  Saturn  is  stretched  over  this  Astrasa- 
forsaken  nineteenth  century. 

Having  glanced  at  the  ledger  of  Glory  un- 
der the  title  Sawtn,  B.,  let  us  extend  our  in- 


vestigations, and  discover  i*"  ;hat  ^str  active 
volume  does  not  cont^rj  Some  c^arp-'x  more 
personally  interesting  to  ourselves.  I  think 
we  should  be  more  economical  of  our  re- 
sources, did  we  thoroughly  appreciate  the 
fact,  that,  whenever  Brother  Jonathan  seems 
to  be  thrusting  his  hand  into  his  own  pocket, 
he  is,  in  fact,  picking  ours.  I  confess  that 
the  late  muck  which  the  country  has  been 
running  has  materially  changed  my  views  as 
to  the  best  method  of  raising  revenue.  If,  by 
means  of  direct  taxation,  tne  bills  for  every 
extraordinary  outlay  were  brought  under  our 
immediate  eye,  so  that,  like  thrifty  house- 
keepers, we  could  see  where  and  how  fast 
the  money  was  going,  we  should  be  less 
likely  to  commit  extravagances.  At  present, 
these  things  are  managed  in  such  a  nugger- 
mugger  way,  that  we  know  not  what  we  pay 
for  ;  the  poor  man  is  charged  as  much  as  the 
rich  ;  and,  while  we  are  saving  and  scrimp- 
ing at  the  spigot,  the  government  is  drawing 
off  at  the  bung.  If  we  could  know  that  a 
part  of  the  money  we  expend  for  tea  and 
coffee  goes  to  buy  powder  and  balls,  and  that 
it  is  Mexican  blood  which  makes  the  clothes 
on  our  backs  more  costly,  it  would  set  some  of 
us  athinking.  During  the  present  fall,  I  have 
often  pictured  to  myself  a  government  official 
entering  my  study  and  handing  me  the  fol- 
lowing bill :  — 

Washington,  Sept.  30, 1848. 
Rev.  Homer  Wilbur  to  SBJncle  JSainuer, 

Dr. 

To  his  share  of  work  done  in  Mexico  on 
partnership  account,  sundry  jobs, 
as  below. 

"  killing,      maiming,     and     wounding 

about   5,000  Mexicans,        .        .    $2.00 

"  slaughtering   one   woman     carrying 

water  to  wounded 10 

"  extra  work  on  two  different  Sabbaths 
(one  bombardment  and  one  as- 
sault) whereby  the  Mexicans 
were  prevented  from  defiling 
themselves  with  the  idolatries  of 
high  mass,       .         .         .         .         .     3.50 

"  throwing  an  especially  fortunate  and 
Protestant  bombshell  into  the 
Cathedral  at  Vera  Cruz,  whereby 
several  female  Papists  were  slain 
at  the  altar,     .        •  .  .50 

"  his  proportion  of  cash  paid  for  con- 
quered territory,    ....     1.75 

"  do.      do.      for  conquering  do.     1.50 

"  manuring  do.  with  new  superior 
compost  called  "American  Citi- 
zen,*'         S° 

"  extending  the  area  of  freedom  and 

Protestantism, or 

"  giory» °* 

♦9-87 

Immediate  payment  is  requested. 


2X6 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS, 


N.  B.  Thankful  for  former  favors,  U.  S. 
requests  a  continuance  of  patronage.  Or- 
ders executed  with  neatness  and  despatch. 
Terms  as  low  as  those  of  any  other  contractor 
for  the  same  kind  and  style  of  work. 

I  can  fancy  the  official  answering  my  look 
of  horror  with,  —  "  Yes,  Sir,  it  looks  like  a 
high  charge.  Sir  ;  but  in  these  days  slaughter- 
ing is  slaughtering."  Verily,  I  would  that 
every  one  understood  that  it  was  ;  for  it  goes 
about  obtaining  money  under  the  false  pre- 
tence of  being  glory.  For  me,  I  have  an 
imagination  which  plays  me  uncomfortable 
tricks.  It  happens  to  me  sometimes  to  see 
a  slaughterer  on  his  way  home  from  his  day's 
work,  and  forthwith  my  imagination  puts  a 
cocked-hat  upon  his  head  and  epaulettes  upon 
his  shoulders,  and  sets  him  up  as  a  candidate 
for  the  Presidency.  So,  also,  on  a  recent 
public  occasion,  as  the  place  assigned  to  the 
"  Reverend  Clergy  "  is  just  behind  that  of 
"  Officers  of  the  Army  and  Navy  "  in  pro- 
cessions, it  was  my  fortune  to  be  seated  at 
the  dinner-table  over  against  one  of  these 
respectable  persons.  He  was  arrayed  as 
(out  of  his  own  profession)  only  kings,  court- 
officers,  and  footmen  are  in  Europe,  and 
Indians  in  America.  Now  what  does  my 
over-officious  imagination  but  set  to  work 
upon  him,  strip  him  of  his  gay  livery,  and 
present  him  to  me  coatless,  his  trowsers 
thrust  into  the  tops  of  a  pair  of  boots  thick 
with  clotted  blood,  and  a  basket  on  his  arm 
out  of  which  lolled  a  gore-smeared  axe, 
thereby  destroying  my  relish  for  the  tem- 
poral mercies  upon  the  board  before  me  I  — 
H.  W.] 


No.  IX. 


A  THIRD  LETTER  FROM  B.  SAWIN,  ESQ. 

[UPON  the  following  letter  slender  com- 
ment wiH  be  needful.  In  what  river  Selem- 
nus  has  Mr.  Sawin  bathed,  that  he  has  be- 
come so  swiftly  oblivious  of  his  former  loves  ? 
From  an  ardent  and  (as  befits  a  soldier)  con- 
fident wooer  of  that  coy  bride,  the  popular 
favor,  we  see  him  subside  of  a  sudden  into 
the  fl  trust  not  jilted)  Cincinnatus,  returning 
to  his  plough  with  a  goodly  sized  branch  of 
willow  in  his  hand ;  figuratively  returning, 
however,  to  a  figurative  plough,  and  from  no 
profound  affection  for  that  honored  imple- 
ment of  husbandry  (for  which,  indeed,  Mr. 
Sawin  never  displayed  any  decided  predilec- 
tion), but  in  order  to  be  gracefully  summoned 
therefrom  to  more  congenial  labors.  It  would 
seem  that  the  character  of  the  ancient  Dic- 
tator had  become  part  of  the  recognized 
stock  of  our  modern  political  comedy,  though, 
as  our  term  of  office  extends  to  a  quadrennial 
length,  the  parallel  is  not  so  minutely  exact 


as  could  be  desired.  It  is  sufficiently  so, 
however,  for  purposes  of  scenic  representa- 
tion. An  humble  cottage  (if  built  of  logs,  the 
better)  forms  the  Arcadian  background  of 
the  stage.  This  rustic  paradise  is  labelled 
Ashland,  Jaalam,  Worth  Bend,  Marshfield, 
Kinderhook,  Or  Baton  Rouge,  as  occasion 
demands.  Before  the  door  stands  a  some- 
thing with  one  handle  (the  other  painted 
in  proper  perspective),  which  represents,  in 
happy  ideal  vagueness,  the  plough.  To  this 
the  defeated  candidate  rushes  with  delirious 
joy,  welcomed  as  a  father  by  appropriate 
groups  of  happy  laborers,  or  from  it  the  suc- 
cessful one  is  torn  with  difficulty,  sustained 
alone  by  a  noble  sense  of  public  duty.  Only 
I  have  observed,  that,  if  the  scene  be  laid  at 
Baton  Rouge  or  Ashland,  the  laborers  are 
kept  carefully  in  the  background,  and  are 
heard  to  shout  from  behind  the  scenes  in  a 
singular  tone  resembling  ululation,  and  ac- 
companied by  a  sound  not  unlike  vigorous 
clapping.  This,  however,  may  be  artistically 
in  keeping  with  the  habits  of  the  rustic  popu- 
lation of  those  localities.  The  precise  con- 
nection between  agricultural  pursuits  and 
statesmanship,  I  have  not  been  able,  after 
diligent  inquiry,  to  discover.  But,  that  my 
investigations  may  not  be  barren  of  all  fruit, 
I  will  mention  one  curious  statistical  fact, 
which  I  consider  thoroughly  established, 
namely,  that  no  real  farmer,  ever  attains 
practically  beyond  a  seat  in  General  Court, 
however  theoretically  qualified  for  more  ex- 
alted  station. 

It  is  probable  that  some  other  prospect  has 
been  opened  to  Mr.  Sawin,  and  that  he  has 
not  made  this  great  sacrifice  without  some 
definite  understanding  in  regard  to  a  seat  in 
the  cabinet  or  a  foreign  mission.  It  may  be 
supposed  that  we  of  Jaalam  were  not  un- 
touched by  a  feeling  of  villatic  pride  in  be- 
holding our  townsman  occupying  so  large  a 
space  in  the  public  eye.  And  to  me,  deeply 
revolving  the  qualifications  necessary  to  a 
candidate  in  these  frugal  times,  those  of  Mr. 
S.  seemed  peculiarly  adapted  to  a  successful 
campaign.  The  loss  of  a  leg,  an  arm,  an  eye, 
and  four  fingers,  reduced  him  so  nearly  to 
the  condition  of  a  vox  et pmterea  nihil,  tha\ 
I  could  think  of  nothing  but  the  loss  of  his 
head  by  which  his  chance  could  have  been 
bettered.  But  since  he  has  chosen  to  balk 
our  suffrages,  we  must  content  ourselves  with 
what  we  can  get,  remembering  lactucas  nan 
essedandas,  Sum carduisujfficiant.  —  H.  W«] 

I  spose  you  recollect  thet  I  explained 

my  gennle  views 
In  the  last  billet  thet  I  writ,  'way  dow* 

frum  Veery  Cruze, 
Jest  arter  I  'd   a  kind  o*  ben  sponta- 

nously  sot  up 
To  run  unanimously  fer  the  Presidential 

cup; 


THE   BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


"7 


O'  course   it  worn't  no  wish  o'  mine, 

't  wuz  ferrlely  distressin', 
But  poppiler  enthusiasm  gut  so  almighty 

pressin' 
Thet,  though  like    sixty  all    along   I 

fumed  an'  fussed  an'  sorrered, 
There  didn't   seem  no  ways   to   stop 

their  bringin'  on  me  forrerd  : 
Fact   is,  they  udged   the  matter  so,  I 

couldn't  help  admittin' 
The  Father  o'  his  Country's  shoes  no 

feet  but  mine  'ould  fit  in, 
Besides  the  savin'  o'  the  soles  fer  ages 

to  succeed, 
Seein'  thet  with  one  wannut  foot,  a  pair 

'd  be  more  'n  I  need  ; 
An',  tell  ye  wut,  them  shoes  '11  want  a 

thund'rin  sight  o'  patchin', 
Ef  this  'ere  fashion  is  to  last  we  've  gut 

into  o'  hatchin' 
A  pair  o'  second  Washintons  fer  every 

new  election,  — 
Though,  fur  ez  number  one 's  consarned, 

I  don't  make  no  objection. 

I  wuz  agoin'  on  to  say  thet  wen  at  fust 

I  saw 
The  masses  would  stick  to  't  I  wuz  the 

Country's  father-'n-law, 
(They  would  ha'  hed  it  Father,  but  I 

told  'em  't  would  n't  du, 
Coz  thet  wuz  sutthin'  of  a  sort  they 

couldn't  split  in  tu, 
An'  Washinton  hed  hed  the  thing  laid 

fairly  to  his  door, 
Nor  darsn't  say  't  worn't  his 'n,  much 

ez  sixty  year  afore,) 
But  'taint  no  matter  ez  to  thet ;  wen  I 

wuz  nomernated, 
'T  worn't  natur  but  wut  I  should   feel 

consid'able  elated, 
An'  wile  the  hooraw  o'   the  thing  wuz 

kind  o'  noo  an'  fresh, 
I  thought  our  ticket  would  ha'  caird  the 

country  with  a  resh. 

Sence   I  've    come    hum,  though,  an' 

looked  round,  I  think  I  seem  to 

find 
Strong  argimunts  ez  thick  ez  fleas  to 

make  me  change  my  mind  ; 
It 's  clear  to  any  one  whose  brain  aint 

fur  gone  in  a  phthisis, 
Thet  hail  Columby's  happy  land  isgoin' 

thru  a  crisis, 


An'  'twould  n't  noways  du  to  hev  the 

people's  mind  distracted 
By  bein'  all  to  once  by  sev'ral  pop'lar 

names  attackted  ; 
'T  would  save  holl  haycartloads  o'  fuss 

an'  three  four  months  o'  jaw, 
Ef  some  illustrous  paytriot  should  back 

out  an'  withdraw  ; 
So,  ez  I  aint  a  crooked  stick,  jest  like  — 

like  ole  (I  swow, 
I   dunno  ez   I  know   his  name)— I'll 

go  back  to  my  plough. 

Wenever    an    Amerikin   distinguished 

politishin 
Begins  to  try  et  wut  they  call  definin' 

his  posishin, 
Wal,  I,  fer  one,   feel  sure   he  aint  gut 

nothin'  to  define  ; 
It 's  so  nine  cases  out  o'  ten,  but  jest 

that  tenth  is  mine  ; 
And  'taint   no   more'n   is    proper  'n' 

right  in  sech  a  sitooation 
To  hint  the  course  you  think  '11  be  the 

savin'  o'  the  nation  ; 
To  funk  right  out  o'  p'lit'cal  strife  aint 

thought  to  be  the  thing, 
Without  you  deacon  off  the  toon  you 

want  your  folks  should  sing  ; 
So  I  edvise  the  noomrous  friends  thet 's 

in  one  boat  with  me 
To  jest  up  killock,  jam  right  down  their 

helium  hard  a  lee, 
Haul  the  sheets  taut,  an',  laying  out 

upon  the  Suthun  tack, 
Make  fer  the  safest  port  they  can,  wich, 

/  think,  is  Ole  Zack. 

Next    thing  you'll  want  to  know,   I 

spose,  wut  argimunts  I  seem 
To  see  thet  makes  me  think  this  ere  '11 

be  the  strongest  team  ; 
Fust  place,  I  've  ben  consid'ble  round 

in  bar-rooms  an'  saloons 
Agethrin'    public   sentiment,    'mongst 

Demmercrats  and  Coons, 
An'  't  aint  ve'y  offen  thet  I  meet  a  chap 

but  wut  goes  in 
Fer  Rough  an'  Ready,  fair  an'  square, 

hufs,  taller,  horns,  an'  skin  ; 
I  don't  deny  but  wut,  fer  one,  ez  fur  ez 

I  could  see, 
I  didn't  like  at  fust  the  Pheladelphj 

nomernee : 


2l8 


THE   B I  GLOW  PAPERS. 


I  could  ha'  pinted  to  a  man  thet  wuz,  I 

guess,  a  peg 
Higher  than  him,  —  a  soger,  tu,  an'  with 

a  wooden  leg  ; 
But  every  day  with  more  an'  more  o' 

Taylor  zeal  I  'm  burnin', 
Seein'  wich  way  the  tide  thet  sets  to 

office  is  aturnin'  ; 
Wy,  into  Bellers's  we  notched  the  votes 

down  on  three  sticks,  — 
'T  wuz  Birdofredum  one,  Cass  aught, 

an'  Taylor  tnventy-six, 
An'  bein  the  on'y  canderdate  thet  wuz 

upon  the  ground, 
They  said  't  wuz  no  more  'n  right  thet 

I  should  pay  the  drinks  all  round  ; 
Ef  I'd  expected  sech  a  trick,  I  wouldn't 

ha'  cut  my  foot 
By  goin'  an'  votin'  fer  myself  like  a  con- 
sumed coot  ; 
It  didn't  make  no  diff'rence,  though; 

I  wish  I  may  be  cust, 
Ef  Bellers  wuz  n't  slim  enough  to  say 

he  would  n't  trust  ! 

Another  pint  thet  influences  the  minds 

o'  sober jedges 
Is  thet  the  Gin'ral  hez  n't  gut  tied  hand 

an'  foot  with  pledges  ; 
He  hez  n't  told  ye  wut  he  is,   an'  so 

there  aint  no  knowin' 
But  wut  he  may  turn  out  to  be  the  best 

there  is  agoin' ; 
This,  at  the  on'y  spot  thet  pinched,  the 

shoe  directly  eases, 
Coz  every  one  is  free  to  'xpect  percisely 

wut  he  pleases : 
I  want  free-trade  ;  you  don't  ;  the  Gin- 
'ral isn't  bound  to  neither  ;  — 
I  vote  my  way  ;  you,  yourn  ;  an'   both 

air  sooted  to  a  T  there. 
Ole  Rough  an'  Ready,  tu,  's  a  Wig,  but 

without  bein'  ultry 
(He  's  like  a  holsome  hayinday,  thet's 

warm,  but  isn't  sultry  ; 
He  's  jest  wut  I  should  call  myself,  a 

kin'  o'  scratch  ez  't  ware, 
Thet  aint  exacly  all  a  wig   nor  wholly 

your  own  hair  ; 
I  've  ben  a  Wig  three  weeks  myself, 

jest  o'  this  mod'rate  sort, 
An'  don't  find  them   an'  Demmercrats 

so  different  ez  I  thought  ; 
They  both  act   pooty  much   alike,  an' 

push  an'  scrouge  an'  cus  ; 


They  're  like  two  pickpockets  in  league 
fer  Uncle  Samwell's  pus  ; 

Each  takes  a  side,  an'  then  they  squeeze 
the  old  man  in  between  'em, 

Turn  all  his  pockets  wrong  side  out  an' 
quick  ez  lightnin'  clean  'em  ; 

To  nary  one  on  'em  I  'd  trust  a  secon'- 
handed  rail 

No  furder  off  'an  I  could  sling  a  bul- 
lock by  the  tail. 

Webster  sot   matters  right  in  thet   air 

Mashnel'  speech  o'  his'n  ;  — 
"  Taylor,"  sez  he,  "  aint  nary  ways  the 

one  thet  I  'da  chizzen, 
Nor  he   aint   fittin'  fer   the  place,  an' 

like  ez  not  he  aint 
No  more  'n  a  tough  ole  bullethead,  an' 

no  gret  of  a  saint  ; 
But  then,"  sez  he,  "  obsarve  my  pint, 

he  's  jest  ez  good  to  vote  fer 
Ez  though  the  greasin'  on  him  worn't 

a  thing  to  hire  Choate  fer  ; 
Aint  it  ez  easy  done  to  drop  a  ballot  in 

a  box 
Fer  one  ez  't  is  fer  t'  other,  fer  the  bull- 
dog ez  the  fox  ?  " 
It  takes  a  mind   like  Dannel's,  fact,  ez 

big  ez  all  ou'  doors, 
To  find  out  thet  it  looks  like  rain  arter 

it  fairly  pours ; 
I    'gree   with   him,    it  aint   so   dreffle 

troublesome  to  vote 
Fer  Taylor  arter  all,  — it  's  jest  to  go 

an'  change  your  coat  ; 
Wen  he  's  once  greased,  you  '11  swaller 

him  an'  never  know  on  't,  scurce, 
Unless  he  scratches,  goin'  down,  with 

them  'ere  Gin'ral's  spurs. 
I  've  ben  a  votin'  Demmercrat,  ez  reg- 

'laras  a  clock, 
But  don't  find  goin'  Taylor  gives  my 

narves  no  gret  'f  a  shock  ; 
Truth  is,  the  cutest  leadin'   Wigs,  ever 

sence  fust  they  found 
Wich  side  the  bread  gut  buttered  on, 

hev  kep'  a  edgin'  round  ; 
They  kin'  o'  slipt  the  planks  frum  out 

th   ole  platform  one  by  one 
An'  made  it  gradooally  noo,  'fore  folks 

know'd  wut  wuz  done. 
Till,  fur'z  I  know,  there  aint   an   inch 

thet  I  could  lay  my  han'  on, 
But  I,  or  any  Demmercrat,  feels  com- 

f  table  to  stan'  on, 


THE   BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


219 


An'  ole  Wig  doctrines  act'lly  look,  their 
occ'pants  bein'  gone, 

Lonesome  ez  staddles  on  a  mash  with- 
out no  hayrick*  on. 

I  spose  it  's  time  now  I  should  give  my 

thoughts  upon  the  plan, 
Thet  chipped  the  shell  at  Buffalo,  o' 

settin'  up  ole  Van. 
I  used  to  vote  fer  Martin,  but,  I  swan, 

I  'm  clean  disgusted,  — 
He  aint  the  man  thet  I  can  say  is  fittin' 

to  be  trusted  ; 
He  aint  half  antislav'ry  'nough,  nor  I 

aint  sure,  ez  some  be, 
He  'd  go  in  fer  abolishin'  the  Deestrick 

o'  Columby  ; 
An',  now  I  come  to  recollect,  it  kin'  o' 

makes  me  sick  'z 
A   horse,  to   think  o'   wut   he   wuz   in 

eighteen  thirty-six. 
An'   then,   another  thing  ;  —  I   guess, 

though  mebby  I  am  wrong, 
This  Buff'lo  plaster  aint  agoin'  to  dror 

almighty  strong ; 
Some  folks,  I   know,  hev  gut  th'  idee 

thet  No'thun  dough  '11  rise, 
Though,  'fore  I  see  it  riz  an'  baked,  I 

would  n't  trust  my  eyes  ; 
'T  will  take  more  emptins,  a  long  chalk, 

than  this  noo  party  's  gut, 
To  give  sech  heavy  cakes  ez   them   a 

start,  I  tell  ye  wut. 
But  even  ef  they  caird  the  day,  there 

would  n't  be  no  endurin' 
To  stan'  upon  a  platform   with  sech 

critters  ez  Van  Buren  ;  — 
An'  his  son  John,  tu,  1  can't  think  how 

thet  'ere  chap  should  dare 
To  speak  ez  he  doos  ;  wy,  they  say  he 

used  to  cuss  an'  swear  ! 
I  spose  he  never  read   the   hymn    thet 

tells  how  down  the  stairs 
A  feller  with  long   legs   wuz   throwed 

thet  would  n't  say  his  prayers. 
This   brings  me  to   another  pint :  the 

leaders  o'  the  party 
Aint  jest  sech  men  ez  I  can  act  along 

with  free  an'  hearty  ; 
They  aint  not  quite  respectable,   an' 

wen  a  feller's  morrils 
Don't  toe  the  straightest  kin'  o'  mark, 

wy,  him  an'  me  jest  quarrils. 
I  went  to  a  free  soil  meetin'  once,  an' 

wut  d'  ye  think  I  see  ? 


A  feller  was  aspoutin'  there  thet  act'lly 

come  to  me, 
About  two  year  ago  last  spring,  ez  nigh 

ez  I  can  jedge, 
An'  axed  me  ef  I  did  n't  want  to  sign 

the  Temprunce  pledge  ! 
He  's  one  o'  them  that  goes  about  an' 

sez  you  hed  n't  ough'  ter 
Drink  nothin',  mornin',  noon,  or  night, 

stronger  'an  Taunton  water. 
There  's  one  rule  I  've  ben  guided  by, 

in  settlin'  how  to  vote,  oilers,  — 
I  take  the  side  thet  is  rit  took  by  them 

consarned  teetotallers. 

Ez  fer  the  niggers,  I  've  ben  South,  an' 

thet  hez  changed  my  mind  ; 
A  lazier,  more  ongrateful  set  you  could 

n't  nowers  find. 
You  know  I  mentioned  in  my  last  thet 

I  should  buy  a  nigger, 
Ef  I  could  make  a  purchase  at  a  pooty 

mod' rate  figger ; 
So,  ez  there  's  nothin'  in  the  world  I  'm 

fonder  of  'an  gunnin', 
I  closed  a  bargain  finally  to  take  a  fel- 
ler runnin'. 
I  shou'dered  queen's-arm  an'  stumped 

out,  an'  wen  I  come  t'  th'  swamp, 
'T  worn't  very  long   afore  I  gut  upon 

the  nest  o'  Pomp  ; 
I  come  acrost  a  kin'  o'  hut,  an',  playin' 

round  the  door, 
Some    little    woolly-headed    cubs,    ez 

many  'z  six  or  more. 
At  fust  I  thought   o'  firin',  but  think 

twice  is  safest  oilers ; 
There  aint,  thinks  I,  not  one  on  'erri 

but 's  wuth  his  twenty  dollars, 
Or  would  be,  ef  I  hed  'em  back  into  a 

Christian  land, — 
How  temptin'  all  on  'em  would  look 

upon  an  auction-stand  1 
(Not  but  wut  /  hate  Slavery  in  th'  ab- 
stract, stem  to  starn,  — 
I  leave  it  ware  our  fathers  did,  a  privit 

State  consarn.) 
Soon  'z  they  see   me,  they  yelled  an' 

run,  but  Pomp  wuz  out  ahoein' 
A  leetle  patch  o'  corn  he  hed,  or  else 

there  aint  no  knowin' 
He  would  n't  ha'  took  a  pop  at  me  ;  but 

I  hed  gut  the  start, 
An'  wen  he  looked,  I  vow  he  groaned 

ez  though  he  'd  broke  his  heart ; 


THE   BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


He  done  \\  like  a  wite  man,  tu,  ez  nat'- 

ral  ez  a  pictur, 
The  imp'dunt,  pis'nous  hypocrite  !  wus 

'an  a  boy  constrictur. 
"You  can't  gum  me,  I  tell  ye  now,  an' 

so  you  need  n't  try, 
I  'xpect  my  eye-teeth   every  mail,  so 

jest  shet  up,"  sez  I. 
"Don't  go  to  actin'  ugly  now,  or  else 

I  '11  jest  let  strip, 
You  'd  best  draw  kindly,  seein'  'z  how 

I  've  gut  ye  on  the  hip ; 
Besides,  you  darned  ole  fool,  it  aint  no 

gret  of  a  disaster 
To  be  benev'lently  druv  back  to  a  con- 
tented master. 
Ware  you  hed  Christian  priv'ledges  you 

don't  seem  quite  aware  of, 
Or  you  'd  ha'  never  run  away  from  bein' 

well  took  care  of; 
Ez  fer  kin'  treatment,  wy,  he  wuz  so 

fond  on  ye,  he  said 
He  'd  give  a  fifty  spot  right  out,  to  git 

ye,  'live  or  dead  ; 
Wite  folks  aint  sot  by  half  ez  much ; 

'member  I  run  away, 
Wen  I  wuz  bound  to  Cap'n  Jakes,  to 

Mattysqumscot  Bay; 
Don'  know  him,  likely?      Spose  not; 

wal,  the  mean  ole  codger  went 
An'  offered  —  wut  reward,  think  ?    Wal, 

it  worn't  no  less  'n  a  cent." 


Wal,  I  jest  gut  'em  into  line,  an'  druv 

'em  on  afore  me, 
The  pis'nous  brutes,  I  'd  no  idee  o'  the 

ill-will  they  bore  me  ; 
We  walked  till  som'ers  about  noon,  an' 

then  it  grew  so  hot 
I  thought  it  best  to  camp  awile,  so  I 

chose  out  a  spot 
Jest  under  a  magnoly  tree,   an'  there 

right  down  I  sot ; 
Then  I  unstrapped  my  wooden  leg,  coz 

it  begun  to  chafe, 
An'  laid  it  down  'long  side  o'  me,  sup- 

posin'  all  wuz  safe ; 
I  made  my  darkies  all  set  down  around 

me  in  a  ring, 
An'  sot  an'  kin'  o'   ciphered   up  how 

much  the  lot  would  bring  ; 
But,  wile  I  drinked  the  peaceful  cup  of 

a  pure  heart  an'  mind 


(Mixed  with  some  wiskey,  nowan'  then), 
Pomp  he  snaked  up  behind, 

An'  creepin'  grad'lly  close  tu,  ez  quiet 
ez  a  mink, 

Jest  grabbed  my  leg,  and  then  pulled 
foot,  quicker  'an  you  could  wink, 

An',  come  to  look,  they  each  on  'em 
hed  gut  behin'  a  tree, 

An'  Pomp  poked  out  the  leg  a  piece, 
jest  so  ez  I  could  see, 

An'  yelled  to  me  to  throw  away  my  pis- 
tils an'  my  gun, 

Or  else  thet  they  'd  cair  off  the  leg,  an' 
fairly  cut  an'  run. 

I  vow  1  did  n't  b'lieve  there  wuz  a  de- 
cent alligatur 

Thet  hed  a  heart  so  destitoot  o'  com- 
mon human  natur ; 

However,  ez  there  worn't  no  help,  I 
finally  give  in 

An'  heft  my  arms  away  to  git  my  leg 
safe  back  agin. 

Pomp  gethered  all  the  weapins  up,  an' 
then  he  come  an'  grinned, 

He  showed  his  ivory  some,  I  guess,  an' 
sez,  "You  're  fairly  pinned  ; 

Jest  buckle  on  your  leg  agin,  an'  git 
right  up  an'  come, 

'T  wun't  du  fer  fammerly  men  like  me  to 
be  so  long  from  hum." 

At  fust  I  put  my  foot  right  down  an' 
swore  I  would  n't  budge. 

"Jest  ez  you  choose,"  sez  he,  quite 
cool,  "either  be  shot  or  trudge." 

So  this  black-hearted  monster  took  an' 
act'lly  druv  me  back 

Along  the  very  feetmarks  o'  my  happy 
mornin'  track, 

An'  kep'  me  pris'ner  'bout  6ix  months, 
an'  worked  me,  tu,  like  sin, 

Till  I  hed  gut  his  corn  an'  his  Carliny 
taters  in  ; 

He  made  me  larn  him  readin',  tu  (al- 
though the  crittur  saw 

How  much  it  hut  my  morril  sense  to 
act  agin  the  law), 

So'st  he  could  read  a  Bible  he  'd  gut ; 
an'  axed  ef  I  could  pint 

The  North  Star  out ;  but  there  I  put 
his  nose  some  out  o'  jint, 

Fer  I  weeled  roun'  about  sou'west,  an', 
lookin'  up  a  bit, 

Picked  out  a  middlin'  shiny  one  an  toit 
him  thet  wuz  it- 


THE  BIGLOiV  PAPERS. 


Fin'lly,  he  took  me  to   the  door,  an', 

givin'  me  a  kick, 
Sez,  —  "  Ef  you  know  wut  's  best  fer 

ye,  be  off,  now,  double-quick  ; 
The  wintertime  's  a  comin'   on,   an', 

though  I  gut  ye  cheap, 
You  're  so  darned  lazy,   I  don't  think 

you  're  hardly  wuth  your  keep  ; 
Besides,  the  childrin  's  growin'  up,  an' 

you  aint  jest  the  model 
I  'd  like  to  hev  'em  immertate,  an'  so 

you  'd  better  toddle  !  " 

Now  is  there  anythin'  on  airth  '11  ever 

prove  to  me 
Thet  renegader  slaves  like  him  air  fit 

fer  bein'  free  ? 
V  you  think  they  '11  suck  me  in  to  jine 

the  Buff'lo  chaps,  an'  them 
Rank  infidels  thet  go  agin  the  Scrip- 

tur'l  cus  o'  Shem  ? 
Not  by  a  jugfull !  sooner  'n  thet,  I  'd 

go  thru  fire  an'  water; 
Wen  1  hev  once  made  up  my  mind,  a 

meet'nhus  aint  sotter  ; 
No,  not  though  all  the  crows  thet  flies  to 

pick  my  bones  wuz  cawin',  — 
1  guess  we  're  in  a  Christian  land,  — 
Yourn, 

BIRDOFREDUM   SAWIN. 


[Here,  patient  reader,  we  take  leave  of 
each  other,  I  trust  with  some  mutual  satis- 
faction. I  say  patient,  for  I  love  not  that 
kind  which  skims  dippingly  over  the  surface 
of  the  page,  as  swallows  over  a  pool  before 
rain.  By  such  no  pearls  shall  be  gathered. 
But  if  no  pearls  there  be  (as,  indeed,  the 
world  is  not  without  example  of  books  where- 
froin  the  longest-winded  diver  shall  bring  up 
no  more  than  his  proper  handful  of  mud),  yet 
let  us  hope  that  an  oyster  or  two  may  reward 
adequate  perseverance.  If  neither  pearls  nor 
oysters,  yet  is  patience  itself  a  gem  worth 
diving  deeply  for. 

It  may  seem  to  some  that  too  much  space 
has  been  usurped  by  my  own  private  lucu- 
brations, and  some  may  be  fain  to  bring 
against  me  that  old  jest  of  him  who  preached 
all  his  hearers  out  of  the  meeting-house  save 
only  the  sexton  who,  remaining  for  yet  a  little 
space,  from  a  sense  of  official  duty,  at  last 

ave  out    also,   and,    presenting    the   keys. 

umbly  requested  our  preacher  to  lock  the 
doors,  when  he  should  have  wholly  relieved 
himself  of  his  testimony.  I  confess  to  a  satis- 
faction in  the  self  act  of  preaching,  nor  do  I 
esteem  a  discourse  to  be  wholly  thrown  away 
even  upon  a  sleeping  or  unintelligent  au- 
ditory.    I  cannot  easily  believe  that  the  Gos- 


I; 


pel  of  Saint  John,  which  Jacques  Cartier  or- 
dered to  be  read  in  the  Latin  tongue  to  the 
Canadian  savages,  upon  his  first  meeting  with 
them,  fell  altogether  upon  stony  ground.  For 
the  earnestness  of  the  preacher  is  a  sermon 
appreciable  by  dullest  intellects  and  most 
alien  ears.  In  this  wise  did  Episcopius  convert 
many  to  his  opinions,  who  yet  understood 
not  the  language  in  whicli  he  discoursed. 
The  chief  thing  is  that  the  messenger  believe 
that  he  has  an  authentic  message  to  de- 
liver. For  counterfeit  messengers  that  mode 
of  treatment  which  Father  John  de  Piano 
Carpini  relates  to  have  prevailed  among  the 
Tartars  would  seem  effectual,  and,  perhaps, 
deserved  enough.  For  my  own  part,  I  may 
lay  claim  to  so  much  of  the  spirit  of  martyr- 
dom as  would  have  led  ine  to  go  into  banish- 
ment with  those  clergymen  whom  Alphonso 
the  Sixth  of  Portugal  drave  out  of  h  s  king- 
dom for  refusing  to  shorten  their  pulpit  elo- 
quence. It  is  possible,  that,  having  been  in- 
vited into  my  brother  Biglow's  desk,  I  may 
have  been  too  little  scrupulous  in  using  it  for 
the  venting  of  my  own  peculiar  doctrines  to  a 
congregation  drawn  together  in  the  expec- 
tation and  with  the  desire  of  hearing  him. 

I  am  not  wholly  unconscious  of  a  peculiar- 
ity of  mental  organization  which  impels  me, 
like  the  railroad-engine  with  its  train  of  cars, 
to  run  backward  lor  a  short  distance  in  or- 
der to  obtain  a  fairer  start.  I  may  compare 
myself  to  one  fishing  from  the  rocks  when  the 
sea  runs  high,  who,  misinterpreting  the  suc- 
tion of  the  undertow  for  the  biting  of  some 
larger  fish,  jerks  suddenly,  and  finds  that  he 
has  caught  bottom,  hauling  in  upon  the  end 
of  his  line  a  trail  of  various  algcz,  among 
which,  nevertheless,  the  naturalist  may  haply 
find  somewhat  to  repay  the  disappointment 
of  the  angler.  Yet  have  I  conscientiously 
endeavored  to  adapt  myself  to  the  impatient 
temper  of  the  age,  daily  degenerating  more 
and    more  from  the  high  standard  of  our 

fjristine  New  England.  To  the  catalogue  of 
ost  arts  I  would  mournfully  add  also  that  of 
listening  to  two-hour  sermons.  Surely  we 
have  been  abridged  into  a  race  of  pygmies. 
For,  truly,  in  those  of  the  old  discourses  yet 
subsisting  to  us  in  print,  the  endless  spinal 
column  of  divisions  and  subdivisions  can  be 
likened  to  nothing  so  exactly  as  to  the  ver- 
tebra? of  the  saurians,  whence  the  theorist 
may  conjecture  a  race  of  Anakim  proportion- 
ate to  the  withstanding  of  these  other  mon- 
sters. I  say  Anakim  rather  than  Nephelim, 
because  there  seem  reasons  for  supposing 
that  the  race  of  those  whose  heads  {though 
no  giants)  are  constantly  enveloped  in  clouds 
(which  that  name  imports)  will  never  become 
extinct.  The  attempt  to  vanquish  the  innu- 
merable heads  of  one  of  those  aforemen- 
tioned discourses  may  supply  us  with  a  plausi- 
ble interpretation  of  the  second  labor  of 
Hercules,  and  his  successful  experiment  with 
fire  affords  us  a  useful  precedent. 

But  while  I  lament  the  degeneracy  «f  the 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


age  In  this  regard,  I  cannot  refuse  to  succumb 
to  its  influence.  Looking  out  through  my 
study-window,  I  see  Mr.  Biglow  at  a  distance 
busy  in  gathering  his  Baldwins,  of  which, 
to  judge  by  the  number  of  barrels  lying 
about  under  the  trees,  his  crop  is  more  abun- 


dant than  my  own, — by  which  sight  I  am 
admonished  to  turn  to  those  orchards  of  the 
mind  wherein  my  labors  may  be  more  pros- 
pered, and  apply  myself  diligently  to  the 
preparation  of  my  next  Sabbath's  discourse. 
—  H.  W,] 


MELIB  CE  US-HIPPONAX. 


THE 

Bigloo)   papers, 

SECOND   SERIES. 

Eony  ap'  6  iSiwrKT/uibs  eviore  toO  koctimov  vapanoKii  i/Ji(pa.vi<TTiKu>Tepov. 

Longinus. 

"  J'aimerois  mieulx  que  mon   fils  apprinst    aux    tavernes  a  parler,   qu'aux 
escholes  de  la  parlerie."  Montaigne. 

„Unfer  ©prad)  iff  and)  cin  Sprad;  un&  fan  fo  it>o!>t  tin  ©acf  .nennen  alt 
lit  iatiner  saccus."  Fischart. 

"Vim  rebus  aliquando  ipsa  verborum  humilitas  afFert." 

Quintilianus. 

"O  ma  lengo, 
Plantarey  une  estelo  a  toun  froun  encrumit ! " 

Jasmin. 


TO 
ii.    R.    HOAR. 


-TI3-         *»f*r 


- 


: 


228 


THE   BIGLOIV  PAPERS. 


"Manifest  Destiny,"  in  other  words, 
of  national  recklessness  as  to  right  and 
wrong,  than  to  avoid  the  chance  of 
wounding  any  private  sensitiveness. 

The  success  of  my  experiment  soon 
began  not  only  to  astonish  me,  but  to 
make    me    feel    the    responsibility   of 
knowing   that    I    held   in   my   hand   a 
weapon  instead   of  the   mere   fencing- 
stick  I  had  supposed.      Very  far  from 
being  a  popular  author  under  my  own 
name,  so  far,  indeed,  as  to  be  almost 
unread,  I  found  the  verses  of  my  pseu- 
donym copied  everywhere  ;  I  saw  them 
pinned  up  in  workshops  :  I  heard  them 
quoted  and  their  authorship  debated  ; 
I  once  even,  when  rumor  had  at  length 
caught  up  my  name  in  one  of  its  ed- 
dies, had  the  satisfaction  of  overhear- 
ing it  demonstrated,  in  the  pauses  of  a 
concert,  that  /  was  utterly  incompetent 
to  have  written  anything  of  the  kind. 
I  had  read  too  much  not  to  know  the 
utter    worthlessness    of   contemporary 
reputation,  especially  as  regards  satire, 
but  I  knew  also  that  hy  giving  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  influence  it  also  had  its 
worth,  if  that  influence  were  used  on 
the  right  side.     I  had  learned,  too,  that 
the  first  requisite  of  good  writing  is  to 
have  an  earnest  and  definite  purpose, 
whether  aesthetic   or   moral,    and  that 
even  good  writing,  to  please  long,  must 
have   more   than    an   average   amount 
either  of  imagination  or  common-sense. 
The  first  of  these  falls  to  the  lot  of 
scarcely  one  in  several  generations  ;  the 
last   is  within   the   reach   of  many   in 
every  one  that  passes ;   and  of  this  an 
author  may  fairly  hope  to  become  in 
part  the  mouthpiece.     If  I  put  on  the 
cap  and  bells  and  made  myself  one  of 
the  court-fools  of  King  Demos,  it  was 
less  to  make  his  majesty  laugh  than  to 
win  a  passage  to  his  royal  ears  for  cer- 
tain serious  things  which  I  had  deeply 
at  heart.     I  say  this  because  there  is  no 
imputation  that  could  be  more  galling 
to  any  man's  self-respect  than  that  of 
being  a  mere  jester.     I  endeavored,  by 
generalizing  my  satire,  to  give  it  what 
value  I  could  beyond  the  passing  mo- 
ment  and  the  immediate  application. 
How  far   I  have   succeeded  I  cannot 


tell,  but  I  have  had  better  luck  than  1 
ever  looked  for  in  seeing  my  verses 
survive  to  pass  beyond  their  nonage 

In  choosing  the  Yankee  dialect,  I  did 
not   act   without   forethought.     It  had 
long  seemed  to  me  that  the  great  vice 
of  American  writing  and  speaking  was 
a  studied  want  of  simplicity,   that  we 
were  in  danger  of  coming  to  look  on 
our  mother-tongue  as  a  dead  language, 
to  be  sought  in  the  grammar  and  dic- 
tionary rather  than  in   the  heart,  and 
that  our  only  chance  of  escape  was  by 
seeking  it  at  its  living  sources  among 
those  who  were,  as  Scottowe   says  of 
Major-General  Gibbons,  *'  divinely  il- 
literate."    President  Lincoln,  the  only 
really  great   public  man   whom  these 
latter  days  have  seen,  was  great  also  in 
this,  that  he  was  master — witness  his 
speech  at  Gettysburg  — of  a  truly  mas- 
culine English,  classic  because  it  was 
of  no  special  period,  and  level  at  once 
to  the  highest  and  lowest  of  his  country- 
men.    But   whoever  should   read   the 
debates  in  Congress  might  fancy  him- 
self present  at   a   meeting  of  the  city 
council  of  some  city  of  Southern  Gaul 
in   the   decline   of  the   Empire,  where 
barbarians  with  a  Latin  varnish  emu- 
lated each  other  in    being  more   than 
Ciceronian.     Whether  it   be   want  of 
culture,  for  the  highest  outcome  of  that 
is  simplicity,  or  for  whatever  reason,  it 
is  certain  that  very  few  American  writers 
or  speakers  wield  their  native  language 
with    the     directness,    precision,    and 
force  that  are  common  as  the  day  in  the 
mother  country.     We  use  it  like  Scots- 
men, not  as  if  it  belonged  to  us,  but  as 
if  we  wished  to  prove  that  we  belong  to 
it,  by  showing  our  intimacy  with  its  writ- 
ten rather  than  with  its  spoken  dialect. 
And  yet  all  the  while  our  popular  idiom 
is  racy  with  life  and  vigor  and  originali- 
ty, bucksome  (as  Milton  used  the  word) 
to  our  new  occasions,  and  proves  itself 
no  mere  graft  by  sending  up  new  suck- 
ers from  the   old   root  in  spite   of  us. 
It  is  only  from  its  roots  in   the  living 
generations  of  men  that  a  language  can 
be   reinforced  with  fresh  vigor  for  its 
needs  ;  what  may  be  called  a  literate 
dialect  grows  ever  more  and  more  pe- 


INTRODUCTION. 


«9 


dantic  and  foreign,  till  it  becomes  at 
last  as  unfitting  a  vehicle  for  living 
thought  as  monkish  Latin.  That  we 
jihould  all  be  made  to  talk  like  books  is 
the  danger  with  which  we  are  threatened 
by  the  Universal  Schoolmaster,  who 
does  his  best  to  enslave  the  minds  and 
memories  of  his  victims  to  what  he 
esteems  the  best  models  of  English 
composition,  that  is  to  say,  to  the 
writers  whose  style  is  faultily  correct 
and  has  no  blood-warmth  in  it.  No 
language  after  it  has  faded  into  diction, 
none  that  cannot  suck  up  the  feeding 
juices  secreted  for  it  in  the  rich  mother- 
earth  of  common  folk,  can  bring  forth 
a  sound  and  lusty  book.  True  vigor 
and  heartiness  of  phrase  do  not  pass 
from  page  to  page,  but  from  man  to 
man,  where  the  brain  is  kindled  and 
the  lips  suppled  by  downright  living 
interests  and  by  passion  in  its  very 
throe.  Language  is  the  soil  of  thought, 
and  our  own  especially  is  a  rich  leaf- 
mould,  the  slow  deposit  of  ages,  the 
shed  foliage  of  feeling,  fancy,  and  im- 
agination, which  has  suffered  an  earth- 


change,  that  the  vocal  forest,  as  Howell 
called  it,  may  clothe  itself  anew  with 
living  green.  There  is  death  in  the 
dictionary  ;  and,  where  language  is  too 
strictly  limited  by  convention,  the 
ground  for  expression  to  grow  in  is 
limited  also;  and  we  get  spotted  lit- 
erature, Chinese  dwarfs  instead  of 
healthy  trees. 

But  while  the  schoolmaster  has  been 
busy  starching  our  language  and  smooth- 
ing it  flat  with  the  mangle  of  a  supposed 
classical  authority,  the  newspaper  re- 
porter has  been  doing  even  more  harm 
by  stretching  and  swelling  it  to  suit  his 
occasions.  A  dozen  years  ago  I  began 
a  list,  which  I  have  added  to  from  time 
to  time,  of  some  of  the  changes  which 
may  be  fairly  laid  at  his  door.  I  give 
a  few  of  them  as  showing  their  tenden- 
cy, all  the  more  dangerous  that  their 
effect,  like  that  of  some  poisons,  is  in- 
sensibly cumulative,  and  that  they  are 
sure  at  last  of  effect  among  a  people 
whose  chief  reading  is  the  daily  paper. 
I  give  in  two  columns  the  old  style  and 
its  modern  equivalent. 


Old  Style. 

Was  hanged. 

When  the  halter  was  put  round  his  neck. 


A  great  crowd  came  to  see. 
Great  fire. 
The  fire  spread. 

House  burned. 

The  fire  was  got  under. 

Man  fell. 

A.  horse  and  wagon  ran  against. 


The  frightened  horse. 
Sent  for  the  doctor. 

The  mayor  of  the  city  in  a  short  speech 
welcomed. 


I  shall  say  a  few  words. 

Began  his  answer. 
A  bystander  advised. 


New  Style. 

Was  launched  into  eternity. 

When  the  fatal  noose  was  adjusted  about  the 
neck  of  the  unfortunate  victim  of  his  ow,n 
unbridled  passions. 

A  vast  concourse  was  assembled  to  witness. 

Disastrous  conflagration. 

The  conflagration  extended  its  devastating 
career. 

Edifice  consumed. 

The  progress  of  the  devouring  element  was 
arrested. 

Individual  was  precipitated. 

A  valuable  horse  attached  to  a  vehicle  driven 
by  J.  S.,  in  the  employment  of  J.  B.,  col- 
lided with. 

The  infuriated  animal. 

Called  into  requisition  the  services  of  the 
family  physician. 

The  chief  magistrate  of  the  metropolis,  in 
well-chosen  and  eloquent  language,  fre- 
quently interrupted  by  the  plaudits  of  the 
surging  multitude,  officially  tendered  the 
hospitalities. 

I  shall,  with  your  permission,  beg  leave  to 
offer  some  brief  observations. 

Commenced  his  rejoinder. 

One  of  those  omnipresent  characters  who, 
as  if  in  pursuance  of  some  previous  ar- 
rangement, are  certain  to  be  encountered 
in  the  vicinity  when  an  accident  occurs, 
ventured  the  suggestion. 


23° 

He  died. 


THE   BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


He  deceased,  he  passed  out  of  existence, 
his  spirit  quitted  its  earthly  habitation, 
winged  its  way  to  eternity,  shook  off  its 
burden,  &c. 


In  one  sense  this  is  nothing  new. 
The  school  of  Pope  in  verse  ended  by 
wire-drawing  its  phrase  to  such  thin- 
ness that  it  could  bear  no  weight  of 
meaning  whatever.  Nor  is  fine  writ- 
ing by  any  means  confined  to  America. 
All  writers  without  imagination  fall 
into  it  of  necessity  whenever  they  at- 
tempt the  figurative.  1  take  two  ex- 
amples from  Mr.  Merivale's  "  History 
of  the  Romans  under  the  Empire," 
which,  indeed,  is  full  of  such.  "The 
last  years  of  the  age  familiarly  styled 
the  Augustan  were  singularly  barren  of 
the  literary  glories  from  which  its  celeb- 
rity was  chiefly  derived.  One  by  one 
the  stars  in  its  firmament  had  been  lost 
to  the  world  ;  Virgil  and  Horace,  &c, 
had  long  since  died  ;  the  charm  which 
the  imagination  of  Livy  had  thrown 
over  the  earlier  annals  of  Rome  had 
ceased  to  shine  on  the  details  of  almost 
contemporary  history  ;  and  if  the  flood 
of  his  eloquence  still  continued  flow- 
ing, we  can  hardly  suppose  that  the 
stream  was  as  rapid,  as  fresh,  and  as 
clear  as  ever."  I  will  not  waste  time 
in  criticising  the  bad  English  or  the 
mixture  of  metaphor  in  these  sentences, 
but  will  simply  cite  another  from  the 
same  author  which  is  even  worse. 
"  The  shadowy  phantom  of  the  Repub- 
lic continued  to  flit  before  the  eyes  of 
the  Cssar.  There  was  still,  he  appre- 
hended, a  germ  of  sentiment  existing, 
on  which  a  scion  of  his  own  house,  or 
even  a  stranger,  might  boldly  throw 
himself  and  raise  the  standard  of  patri- 
cian independence."  Now  a  ghost 
may  haunt  a  murderer,  but  hardly,  I 
should  think,  to  scare  him  with  the 
threat  of  taking  a  new  lease  of  its  old 
tenement.  And  fancy  the  scion  of  a 
house  in  the  act  of  throwing  itself 
upon  a  ger7n  of  sentiment  to  raise  a 
standard !  I  am  glad,  since  we  have 
so  much  in  the  same  kind  to  answer 
for,  that  this  bit  of  horticultural  rhetoric 
ie  from  beyond  sea.     I   would  not   be 


supposed  to  condemn  truly  imaginative 
prose.  There  is  a  simplicity  of  splen- 
dor, no  less  than  of  plainness,  and  prose 
would  be  poor  indeed  if  it  could  not 
find  a  tongue  for  that  meaning  of  the 
mind  which  is  behind  the  meaning  of 
the  words.  It  has  sometimes  seemed 
to  me  that  in  England  there  was  a 
growing  tendency  to  curtail  language 
into  a  mere  convenience,  and  to  defe- 
cate it  of  all  emotion  as  thoroughly 
as  algebraic  signs.  This  hasarisen,  no 
doubt,  in  part  from  that  healthy  national 
contempt  of  humbug  which  is  charac- 
teristic of  Englishmen,  in  paft  from 
that  sensitiveness  to  the  ludicrous  which 
makes  them  so  shy  of  expressing  feel- 
ing, but  in  part  also,  it  is  to  be  feared, 
from  a  growing  distrust,  one  might  al 
most  say  hatred,  of  whatever  is  super- 
material.  There  is  something  sad  in 
the  scorn  with  which  their  journalists 
treat  the  notion  of  there  being  such  a 
thing  as  a  national  ideal,  seeming  ut- 
terly to  have  forgotten  that  even  in  the 
affairs  of  this  world  the  imagination  is 
as  much  matter-of-fact  as  the  under- 
standing. If  we  were  to  trust  the  im- 
pression made  on  us  by  some  of  the 
cleverest  and  most  characteristic  of 
their  periodical  literature,  we  should 
think  England  hopelessly  stranded  on 
the  good-humored  cynicism  of  well-to- 
do  middle-age,  and  should  fancy  it  an 
enchanted  nation,  doomed  to  sit  forever 
with  its  feet  under  the  mahogany  in  that 
after-dinner  mood  which  follows  con- 
scientious repletion,  and  which  it  is  ill- 
manners  to  disturb  with  any  topics 
more  exciting  than  the  quality  of  thw 
wines.  But  there  are  already  symp- 
toms that  a  large  class  of  Englishmen 
are  getting  weary  of  the  dominion  of 
consols  and  divine  common-sense,  and 
to  believe  that  eternal  three  fisrceni'is 
not  the  chief  end  of  man,  nor  the  high- 
est  and  only  kind  of  interest  fc>  which 
the  powers  and  opportunities  j.f  En^f 
land  are  entitled. 


INTRODUCTION. 


*3i 


The  quality  of  exaggeration  has  often 
been  remarked  on  as  typical  of  Ameri- 
can character,  and  especially  of  Ameri- 
can humor.  In  Dr.  Petri's  Gedrangtes 
Haudbuch  der  Fremdiuorter,  we  are 
told  that  the  word  humbug  is  common- 
ly used  for  the  exaggerations  of  the 
North-Americans.  To  be  sure,  one 
would  be  tempted  to  think  the  dream 
of  Columbus  half  fulfilled,  and  that 
Europe  had  found  in  the  West  a  nearer 
way  to  Orientalism,  at  least  in  diction. 
But  it  seems  to  me  that  a  great  deal  of 
what  is  set  down  as  mere  extravagance 
is  more  fitly  to  be  called  intensity  and 
picturesqueness,  symptoms  of  the  im- 
aginative faculty  in  full  health  and 
strength,  though  producing,  as  yet, 
only  the  raw  and  formless  material  in 
which  poetry  is  to  work.  By  and  by, 
perhaps,  the  world  will  see  it  fashioned 
into  poem  and  picture,  and  Europe, 
which  will  be  hard  pushed  for  original- 
ity erelong,  may  have  to  thank  us  for  a 
new  sensation.  The  French  continue 
to  find  Shakespeare  exaggerated  be- 
cause he  treated  English  just  as  our 
country-folk  do  when  they  speak  of  a 
"steep  price,"  or  say  that  they  "freeze 
to  "  a  thing.  The  first  postulate  of  an 
original  literature  is  that  a  people 
should  use  their  language  instinctively 
and  unconsciously,  as  if  it  were  a  lively 
part  of  their  growth  and  personality, 
not  as  the  mere  torpid  boon  of  educa- 
tion or  inheritance.  Even  Burns  con- 
trived to  write  very  poor  verse  and 
prose  in  English.  Vulgarisms  are  often 
only  poetry  in  the  egg.  The  late  Mr. 
Horace  Mann,  in  one  of  his  public 
addresses,  commented  at  some  length 
on  the  beauty  and  moral  significance 
of  the  French  phrase  s'orienler,  and 
called  on  his  young  friends  to  practise 
upon  it  in  life.  There  was  not  a  Yan- 
kee in  his  audience  whose  problem  had 
not  always  been  to  find  out  what  was 
about  east,  and  to  shape  his  course  ac- 
cordingly. This  charm  which  a  famil- 
iar expression  gains  by  being  comment- 
ed, as  it  were,  and  set  in  a  new  light 
by  a  foreign  language,  is  curious  and 
instructive.  I  cannot  help  thinking 
that  Mr.  Matthew  Arnold  forgets  this 


a  little  too  much  sometimes  when 
he  writes  of  the  beauties  of  French 
style.  It  would  not  be  hard  to  find  in 
the  works  of  French  Academicians 
phrases  as  coarse  as  those  he  cites  from 
Burke,  only  they  are  veiled  by  the  un- 
familiarity  of  the  language.  But,  how- 
ever this  may  be,  it  is  certain  that  poets 
and  peasants  please  us  in  the  same  way 
by  translating  words  back  again  to  their 
primal  freshness,  and  infusing  them 
with  a  delightful  strangeness  which  is 
anything  but  alienation.  What,  for 
example,  is  Milton's  "edge  of  battle  " 
but  a  doing  into  English  of  the  Latin 
acies  ?  IV as  die  Cans  gedacht  das  der 
Schivan  vollbracht,  what  the  goose  but 
thought,  that  the  swan  full  brought  (or, 
to  de-Saxonize  it  a  little,  what  the  goose 
conceived,  that  the  swan  achieved),  and 
it  may  well  be  that  the  life,  invention, 
and  vigor  shown  by  our  popular  speech, 
and  the  freedom  with  which  it  is  shaped 
to  the  instant  want  of  those  who  use  it, 
are  of  the  best  omen  for  our  having  a 
swan  at  last.  The  part  I  have  taken 
on  myself  is  that  of  the  humbler  bird. 
But  it  is  affirmed  that  there  is  some- 
thing innately  vulgar  in  the  Yankee 
dialect.  M.  Sainte-Beuve  says,  with 
his  usual  neatness :  "  Je  definis  un 
patois  une  ancienne  langue  qui  a  eu 
des  malheurs,  mi  encore  une  langue 
toute  jeune  et  qui  n'a  pas  fait  for- 
tune.'" The  first  part  of  his  definition 
applies  to  a  dialect  like  the  Provencal, 
the  last  to  the  Tuscan  before  Dante 
had  lifted  it  into  a  classic,  and  neither, 
it  seems  to  me,  will  quite  fit  a  patois, 
which  is  not  properly  a  dialect,  but 
rather  certain  archaisms,  proverbial 
phrases,  and  modes  of  pronunciation, 
which  maintain  themselves  among  the 
uneducated  side  by  side  with  the  finished 
and  universally  accepted  language. 
Norman  French,  for  example,  or  Scotch 
down  to  the  time  of  James  VI.,  could 
hardly  be  called  patois,  while  I  should 
be  half  inclined  to  name  the  Yankee  a 
lingo  rather  than  a  dialect.  It  has  re- 
tained a  few  words  now  fallen  into  dis- 
use in  the  mother  country,  like  to  tarry, 
to  progress,  fleshy,  fall,  and  some 
others  ;  it  has  changed  the  meaning  of 


232 


THE   B I  GLOW  PAPERS. 


some,  as  in  freshet ;  and  it  has  clung 
to  what  I  suspect  to  have  been  the 
broad  Norman  pronunciation  of>(which 
Moliere  puts  into  the  mouth  of  his 
rustics)  in  such  words  as  sarvant,  par- 
feet,  vartoo,  and  the  like.  It  main- 
tains something  of  the  French  sound  of 
a  also  in  words  like  chamber,  danger 
i  though  the  latter  had  certainly  begun 
to  take  its  present  sound  so  early  as 
1636,  when  I  find  it  sometimes  spelt 
diinger).  But  in  general  it  may  be 
said  that  nothing  can  be  found  in  it 
which  does  not  still  survive  in  some 
one  or  other  of  the  English  provincial 
dialects.  I  am  not  speaking  now  of 
Americanisms  properly  so  called,  that 
is,  of  words  or  phrases  which  have 
grown  into  use  here  either  through 
necessity,  invention,  or  accident,  such 
as  a  carry,  a  one-horse  affair,  a 
prairie,  to  vamose.  Even  these  are 
fewer  than  is  sometimes  taken  for 
granted.  But  I  think  some  fair  defence 
may  be  made  against  the  charge  of 
vulgarity.  Properly  speaking,  vul- 
garity is  in  the  thought,  and  not 
in  the  word  or  the  way  of  pro- 
nouncing it.  Modern  French,  the 
most  polite  of  languages,  is  barbar- 
ously vulgar  if  compared  with  the 
Latin  out  of  which  it  has  been  cor- 
rupted, or  even  with  Italian.  There  is 
a  wider  gap,  and  one  implying  greater 
boorishness,  between  ministerium  and 
metier,  or  sapiens  and  sachant,  than 
between  druv  and  drove,  or  agin  and 
against,  which  last  is  plainly  an  arrant 
superlative.  Our  rustic  coverlid  is 
nearer  its  French  original  than  the 
diminutive  coverlet,  into  which  it  has 
been  ignorantly  corrupted  in  politer 
speech.  I  obtained  from  three  culti- 
vated Englishmen  at  different  times 
three  diverse  pronunciations  of  a  single 
word,  —  coivcumber,  coocutnber,  and 
cucumber.  Of  these  the  first,  which  is 
Yankee  also,  comes  nearest  to  the 
nasality  of  concombre.  Lord  Ossory 
assures  us  that  Voltaire  saw  the  best 
society  in  England,  and  Voltaire  tells 
his  countrymen  that  handkerchief  via.?, 
pronounced  hankercher.  I  find  it  so 
spelt  in  Hakluyt  and  elsewhere.     This 


enormity  the  Yankee  still  persists  in, 
and  as  there  is  always  a  reason  for  such 
deviations  from  the  sound  as  represent- 
ed by  the  spelling,  may  we  not  suspect 
two  sources  of  derivation,  and  find  an 
ancestor  for  kercher  in  couverture 
rather  than  in  couvreckef?  And  what 
greater  phonetic  vagary  (which  Dry- 
den,  by  the  way,  called  fegary)  in  our 
lingua  rustica  than  this  ker  for  couvre  f 
I  copy  from  the  fly-leaves  of  my  books 
where  I  have  noted  them  from  time  to 
time  a  few  examples  of  pronunciation 
and  phrase  which  will  show  that  the 
Yankee  often  has  antiquity  and  very 
respectable  literary  authority  on  his 
side.  My  list  might  be  largely  in- 
creased by  referring  to  glossaries,  but 
to  them  every  one  can  go  for  himself, 
and  I  have  gathered  enough  for  my 
purpose. 

I  will  take  first  those  cases  in  which 
something  like  the  French  sound  has 
been  preserved  in  certain  single  letters 
and  diphthongs.  And  this  opens  a 
curious  question  as  to  how  long  this 
Gallicism  maintained  itself  in  England. 
Sometimes  a  divergence  in  pronuncia- 
tion has  given  us  two  words  with  dif- 
ferent meanings,  as  in  genteel  and 
jaunty,  which  I  find  coming  in  toward 
the  close  of  the  seventeenth  century, 
and  wavering  between  genteel and  jan~ 
tee.  It  is  usual  in  America  to  drop  the 
u  in  words  ending  in  our,  —  a  very 
proper  change  recommended  by  Howell 
two  centuries  ago,  and  carried  out  by 
him  so  far  as  his  printers  would  allow. 
This  and  the  corresponding  changes  i«i 
musique,  musick,  and  the  like,  which 
he  also  advocated,  show  that  in  hii; 
time  the  French  accent  indicated  by 
the  superfluous  letters  (for  French  had 
once  nearly  as  strong  an  accent  as 
Italian)  had  gone  out  of  use.  There  is 
plenty  of  French  accent  down  to  the 
end  of  Elizabeth's  reign.  In  Daniel  we 
have  riches'  and  counsel' ,  in  Bishop 
Hall  comet' ,  chapelain,  in  Donne  pic- 
tures',  virtue' ,  presence' ,  mortal', 
merit1,  hainous' ,  giant',  with  many 
more,  and  Marston's  satires  are  full  of 
them.  The  two  latter,  however,  are  not 
to  be  relied  on,  as  they  may  be  suspected 


INTRODUCTION. 


233 


of  Chaucerizing.  Herrick  writes  bap- 
time.  The  tendency  to  throw  the  accent 
backward  began  early.  But  the  incon- 
gruities are  perplexing,  and  perhaps 
mark  the  period  of  transition.  In  War- 
ner's "  Albion's  England"  we  have  cre- 
ator1 and  creature'  side  by  side  with  the 
modern  creator  and  creature-  E' tivy 
and  e'nvying  occur  in  Campion  (1602), 
and  yet  envy'  survived  Milton.  In 
some  cases  we  have  gone  back  again 
nearer  to  the  French,  as  in  rev' enne  for 
rez<en'ue.  1  had  been  so  used  to  hear- 
ing imbecile  pronounced  with  the  ac- 
cent on  the  first  syllable,  which  is  in 
accordance  with  the  general  tendency 
in  such  matters,  that  1  was  surprised  to 
find  imbec'ile  in  a  verse  of  _  Words- 
worth. The  dictionaries  all  give  it  so. 
I  asked  a  highly  cultivated  English- 
man, and  he  declared  for  imbeceel' .  In 
general  it  may  be  assumed  that  ac- 
cent will  finally  settle  on  the  syllable 
dictated  by  greater  ease  and  therefore 
quickness  of  utterance.  Bias ' phemous, 
for  example,  is  more  rapidly  pronounced 
than  blasphem'  ous,  to  which  our  Yan- 
kee clings,  following  in  this  the  usage 
of  many  of  the  older  poets.  Ameri- 
can is  easier  than  Ameri'can,  and 
therefore  the  false  quantity  has  carried 
the  day,  though  the  true  one  may  be 
found  in  George  Herbert,  and  even  so 
late  as  Cowley. 

To  come  back  to  the  matter  in  hand. 
Our  "uplandish  man"  retains  the  soft 
or  thin  sound  of  the  u  in  some  words, 
such  as  rule,  truth  (sometimes  also 
pronounced  truth,  not  trootli),  while  he 
says  noo  for  new,  and  gives  to  view  and 
few  so  indescribable  a  mixture  of  the 
two  sounds  with  a  slight  nasal  tincture 
that  it  may  be  called  the  Yankee  shib- 
boleth. In  rule  the  least  sound  of  a 
precedes  the  «.  I  find  reule  in  Pe- 
cock's  "Repressor."  He  probably 
pronounced  it  rayoote,  as  the  old 
French  word  from  which  it  is  derived 
was  very  likely  to  be  sounded  at  first, 
with  a  reminiscence  of  its  original  re- 
gula.  Tindal  has  rueler,  and  the  Co- 
ventry Plays  have  preudent.  As  for 
noo,  may  it  not  claim  some  sanction  in 
its  derivation,   whether  from  nouveau 


or  neuf,  the  ancient  sound  of  which 
may  very  well  have  been  noo/,  as  nearer 
novus  ?  Beef  would  seem  more  like 
to  have  come  from  buffe  than  from 
ba'uf  unless  the  two  were  mere  varie- 
ties of  spelling.  The  Saxon  few  may 
have  caught  enough  from  its  French 
cousin  pen  to  claim  the  benefit  of  the 
same  doubt  as  to  sound  ;  and  our  slang 
phrase  a  few  (as  "  I  licked  him  a  few") 
may  well  appeal  to  tin  pen  for  sense  and 
authority.  Nay,  might  not  lick  itself 
turn  out  to  be  the  good  old  word  lam 
in  an  English  disguise,  if  the  latter 
should  claim  descent  as,  perhaps,  he 
fairly  might,  from  the  Latin  lambere  ? 
The  New  England  ferce  {or  fierce,  and 
perce  for  pierce  (sometimes  heard  as 
fairce  and  pairce),  are  also  Norman. 
For  its  antiquity  1  cite  the  rhyme  of 
verse  and  pierce  in  Chapman  and 
Donne,  and  in  some  commendatory 
verses  by  a  Mr.  Berkenhead  before  the 
poems  of  Francis  Beaumont.  Our 
pairlous  for  perilous  is  of  the  same 
kind,  and  is  nearer  Shakespeare's  par- 
lous than  the  modern  pronunciation. 
One  other  Gallicism  survives  in  oui 
pronunciation.  Perhaps  I  should 
rather  call  it  a  semi-Gallicism,  for  it  is 
the  result  of  a  futile  effort  to  reproduce 
a  French  sound  with  English  lips. 
Thus  far  joint,  employ,  royal  we  have 
jynt,  emply,  ryle,  the  last  differing  only 
from  rile  (roil)  in  a  prolongation  of  the 
y  sound.  In  Walter  de  Biblesworth  I 
find  solives  Englished  by  gistes.  This, 
it  is  true,  may  have  been  pronounced 
jeests,  but  the  pronunciation  jystes 
must  have  preceded  the  present  spell- 
ing, which  was  no  doubt  adopted  after 
the  radical  meaning  was  forgotten,  as 
analogical  with  other  words  in  oi.  In 
the  same  way  after  Norman- French  in- 
fluence had  softened  the  /out  of  would 
(we  already  find  woud  for  vent  in  N.  F. 
poems),  should  followed  the  example, 
and  then  an  /  was  put  into  could,  where 
it  does  not  belong,  to  satisfy  the  logic  of 
the  eye,  which  has  affected  the  pronun- 
ciation and  even  the  spelling  of  English 
more  than  is  commonly  supposed.  I 
meet  with  eyster  for  oyster  as  early  as 
the  fourteenth  century.      I  find  dystrye 


*34 


THE  BIGLOH-  PAPERS. 


for  destroy  in  the  Coventry  Plays,  viage 
in  Bishop  Hall  and  Middleton  the  dra- 
matist, bile  in  Donne  and  Chrononho- 
tonthologos,  line  in  Hall,  ryall  and 
chysr  (for  choice)  in  the  Coventry  Plays. 
In  Chapman's  "All  Fools"  is  the  mis- 
print of  employ  for  imply,  fairly  infer- 
ring an  identity  of  sound  in  the  last  syl- 
lable. Indeed,  this  pronunciation  was 
habitual  till  after  Pope,  and  Rogers  tells 
us  that  the  elegant  Gray  said  naise  for 
noise  just  as  our  rustics  still  do.  Our 
cornisk  (which  I  find  also  in  Herrick) 
remembers  the  French  better  than  cor- 
nice does.  While,  clinging  more  closely 
to  the  Anglo-Saxon  in  dropping  the  g 
from  the  end  of  the  present  participle, 
the  Yankee  now  and  then  pleases  him- 
self with  an  experiment  in  French  na- 
sality in  words  ending  in  n.  It  is  not, 
so  far  as  my  experience  goes,  very  com- 
mon, though  it  may  formerly  have  been 
more  so.  Capting,  for  instance,  I 
never  heard  save  in  jest,  the  habitual 
form  being  kepp'n.  But  at  any  rate  it 
is  no  invention  of  ours.  In  that  de- 
lightful old  volume,  "Ane  Compendi- 
ous Buke  of  Godly  and  Spirituall 
Songs,"  in  which  I  know  not  whether 
the  piety  itself  or  the  simplicity  of  its 
expression  be  more  charming,  I  find 
burding,  garding,  and  cousing,  and  in 
the  State  Trials  uncerting  used  by  a 
gentleman.  The  n  for  ng  I  confess 
preferring. 

Of  Yankee  preterites  I  find  risse  and 
rize  for  rose  in  Middleton  and  Dryden, 
dim  in  Spenser,  chees  (chose)  in  Sir 
John  Mandevil,  give  (gave~)  in  the 
Coventry  Plays,  she/  (shut)  in  Gold- 
ing's  Ovid,*  het  in  Chapman  and  in 
Weever's  Epitaphs,  thriv  and  smit  in 
Drayton,  quit  in  Ben  Jonson  and 
Henry  More,  and  pled  in  the  fastidious 
Landor.  Rid  for  rode  was  anciently 
common.  So  likewise  was  see  for  saw, 
but  I  find  it  in  no  writer  of  authority, 
unless  Chaucer's  seie  was  so  sounded. 
Shew  is  used  by  Hector  Boece,  Giles 
Fletcher,  and  Drummond  of  Haw- 
thornden.  Similar  strong  preterites, 
like   snei»,  thew,  and  even  mexv,  are 

•  Cited  in  Warton's  Obs.  Faery  Q. 


not  without  example.  I  find  sew  for 
sowed  in  Piers  Ploughman.  Indeed, 
the  anomalies  in  English  preterites  are 
perplexing.  We  have  probably  trans- 
ferred flew  from  flow  (as  the  preterite 
of  which  I  have  heard  it)  to  fly  be- 
cause we  had  another  preterite  in  fled. 
Of  weak  preterites  the  Yankee  retains 
growed,  Mowed,  for  which  he  has  good 
authority,  and  less  often  knowed.  His 
sot  is  merely  a  broad  sounding  of  sat, 
no  more  inelegant  than  the  common 
got  for  gat,  which  he  further  degrades 
into  gut.  When  he  says  darst,  he 
uses  a  form  as  old  as  Chaucer. 

The  Yankee  hasretained  something 
of  the  long  sound  of  the  a  in  such 
words  as  axe,  wax,  pronouncing  them 
exe,  wex  (shortened  from  aix,  waix). 
He  also  says  hev  and  ked  (have,  had) 
for  have  and  had.  In  most  cases  he 
follows  an  Anglo-Saxon  usage.  In  aix 
for  axle  he  certainly  does.  I  find  wex 
and  aisches  (ashes)  in  Pecock,  and  exe 
in  the  Paston  Letters.  Chaucer  wrote 
hendy.  Dryden  rhymes  can  with  men, 
as  Mr.  Biglow  would.  Alexander  Gill, 
Milton's  teacher,  in  his  "Logonomia  " 
cites  hez  for  hath  as  peculiar  to  Lin- 
colnshire. I  find  hayth  in  Collier's 
"  Bibliographical  Account  of  Early 
English  Literature "  under  the  date 
1584,  and  Lord  Cromwell  so  wrote  it. 
Sir  Christopher  Wren  wrote  belcony. 
Our  fleet  is  only  the  O.  F.flaict.  Thaim 
for  them  was  common  in  the  sixteenth 
century.  We  have  an  example  of  the 
same  thing  in  the  double  form  of  the 
verb  thrash,  thresh.  While  the  New- 
Englander  cannot  be  brought  to  say 
instead  for  instid  (commonly  'slid 
where  not  the  last  word  in  a  sentence), 
he  changes  the  i  into  e  in  red  for  rid, 
tell  for  till,  hender  for  hinder,  rense  for 
rinse.  I  find  ?W  in  the  old  interlude 
of  "Thersytes,"  tellvn  a  letter  of  I)a- 
bometo  Henslowe,  and  also,  I  shudder 
to  mention  it,  in  a  letter  of  the  great 
Duchess  of  Marlborough,  Atossa  her- 
self!  It  occurs  twice  in  a  single  verse 
of  the  Chester  Plays,  which  I  copy  as 
containing  another  Yankeeism  :  — 

"  Tell  the  day  of  dome,  tell  the   beaiues 
blow" 


INTRODUCTION. 


•35 


From  this  word  blow  is  formed  blowth, 
which  I  heard  again  this  summer  after 
a  Jong  interval.  Mr.  Wright*  explains 
it  as  meaning  "a  blossom."  With  us 
a  single  blossom  is  a  blow,  while  blowtk 
means  the  blossoming  in  general.  A 
farmer  would  say  that  there  was  a  good 
blowth  on  his  fruit-trees.  The  word  re- 
treats farther  inland  and  away  from  the 
railways,  year  by  year.  Wither  rhymes 
hinder  with  slender,  and  Shakespeare 
and  Lovelace  have  renched  for  rinsed. 
In  "  Gammer  Gurton "  is  sence  for 
since ;  Marlborough's  Duchess  so 
writes  it,  and  Donne  rhymes  since  with 
Amiens  and  patience,  Bishop  Hall 
and  Otway  with  pretence,  Chapman 
with  citizens,  Dryden  with  providence. 
Indeed,  why  should  not  sithence  take 
that  form?  Dryden's  wife  (an  earl's 
daughter)  has  tell  for  till,  Margaret, 
mother  of  Henry  VII.,  writes  seche  for 
such,  and  our  ef  finds  authority  in  the 
old  form  yeffe. 

E  sometimes  takes  the  place  of  u,  as 
jedge,  tredge,  bresli.  I  find  tredge  in 
the  interlude  of  "Jack  Jugler,"  bresli 
in  a  citation  by  Collier  from  "  London 
Cries  "  of  the  middle  of  the  seven- 
teenth century,  and  resc/ie  for  rush 
ififteenth  century)  in  the  very  valuable 
"  Volume  of  Vocabularies  "  edited  by 
Mr.  Wright.  Resce  is  one  of  the 
Anglo-Saxon  forms  of  the  word  in 
Bosworth's  A.  S.  Dictionary.  The 
Yankee  always  shortens  the  u  in  the 
ending  turv,  making  ventur,  natur,  pic- 
tur,  and  so  on.  This  was  common, 
also,  among  the  educated  of  the  last 
generation.  I  am  inclined  to  think  it 
may  have  been  once  universal,  and  I 
certainly  think  it  more  elegant  than  the 
vile  vencher,  naycher,  fiickcher,  that 
have  taken  its  place,  sounding  like  the 
invention  of  a  lexicographer  with  his 
mouth  full  of  hot  pudding.  Nash  in 
his  "  Pierce  Penniless  "  has  ventur, 
and  so  spells  it,  and  I  meet  it  =»lso  in 
Spenser,  Drayton,  Ben  Jonson,  Her- 
rick,  and  Prior.  Spenser  ha^  tirt're't. 
which    can   be  contracted   only    from 

*  Dictionary  of  Obsolete  and    Provin-ial 
English. 


tortur  and  not  from  torcher.  Quarles 
rhymes  nature  with  creator,  and  Dry- 
den with  satire,  which  he  doubtless 
pronounced  according  to  its  older  form 
of  satyr.  Quarles  has  also  torture  and 
mortar.  Mary  Boleyn  writes  kreatur. 
I  shall  now  give  some  examples 
which  cannot  so  easily  be  ranked  under 
any  special  head.  Gill  charges  the 
Eastern  counties  with  kiver  for  cover, 
and  ta  for  to.  The  Yankee  pronounces 
both  too  and  to  like  ta  (like  the  tou  in 
touch)  where  they  are  not  emphatic. 
When  they  are,  both  become  tu.  In  old 
spelling,  to  is  the  common  (and  indeed 
correct)  form  of  too,  which  is  only  to 
with  the  sense  of  in  addition.  I  sus- 
pect that  the  sound  of  our  too  has 
caught  something  from  the  French  tout, 
and  it  is  possible  that  the  old  too-too  is 
not  a  reduplication,  but  a  reminiscence 
of  the  feminine  form  of  the  same  word 
(toute)  as  anciently  pronounced,  with 
the  e  not  yet  silenced.  Gill  gives  a 
Northern  origin  to  geaun  for  gown  and 
waund  for  wound  (vulnus).  Lovelace 
has  waund,  but  there  is  something  too 
dreadful  in  suspecting  Spenser  (who 
borealized  in  his  pastorals)  of  having 
ever  been  guilty  of  geaun  !  And  yet 
some  delicate  mouths  even  now  are 
careful  to  observe  the  Hibernicism  of 
ge-ard  for  guard,  and  ge-url  for  girl. 
Sir  Philip  Sidney  (credite  posteri !) 
wrote  furr  for  far.  I  would  hardly 
have  believed  it  had  I  not  seen  it  in 
facsimile.  As  some  consolation,  I 
find  furder  in  Lord  Bacon  and  Donne, 
and  Wither  rhymes  far  with  cur.  The 
Yankee,  who  omits  the  final  d  in  many 
words,  as  do  the  Scotch,  makes  up  for 
it  by  adding  one  in  geound.  The  pu- 
rist does  not  feel  the  loss  of  the  d  sen- 
sibly in  lawn  and  yon,  from  the  former 
of  which  it  has  dropped  again  after  a 
wrongful  adoption  (retained  in  laun- 
dry), while  it  properly  belongs  to  the 
latter.  But  what  shall  we  make  of git, 
yit,  and  yis  ?  I  find  yis  and  git  in 
Warner's  "  Albion's  England,"  yet 
rhyming  with  wit,  admit,  and  fit  in 
Donne,  with  wit  in  the  "  Revenger's 
Tragedy,"  Beaumont,  and  Suckling, 
with  writ  in  Dryden,  and  latest  of  all 


236 


THE   B I  GLOW  PAPERS. 


with  wit  in  Sir  Hanbury  Williams. 
Prior  rhymes  fitting  and  begetting. 
Worse  is  to  come.  Among  others, 
Donne  rhymes  again  with  sin,  and 
Quarles  repeatedly  with  in.  Ben  for 
been,  of  which  our  dear  Whittier  is  so 
fond,  has  the  authority  of  Sackville, 
"Gammer  Gurton"  (the  work  of  a 
bishop),  Chapman,  Dryden,  and  many 
more,  though  bin  seems  to  have  been 
the  common  form.  Whittier's  accent- 
ing the  first  syllable  of  rom' ance  finds 
an  accomplice  in  Drayton  among  oth- 
ers, and  though  manifestly  wrong,  is 
analogous  with  Rotn'ans.  Of  other 
Yankeeisms,  whether  of  form  or  pro- 
nunciation, which  I  have  met  with  I 
add  a  few  at  random.  Pecock  writes 
sowdiers  (sogers,  soudoyers),  and 
Chapman  and  Gill  sodder.  This  ab- 
sorption of  the  /  is  common  in  various 
dialects,  especially  in  the  Scottish.  Pe- 
cock writes  also  biyende,  and  the  au- 
thors of  "Jack  Jugler"  and  "Gammer 
Gurton"  yender.  The  Yankee  in- 
cludes "yon"  in  the  same  category, 
and  says  "hither  an'  yen,"  for  "to  and 
fro."  ( Cf.  German  jenseits. )  Pecock 
and  plenty  more  have  ivrastle.  Tindal 
has  agynste,  gretter,  shett,  ondone, 
debyt'e,  and  scace.  "Jack  Jugler"  has 
scacely  (which  I  have  often  heard, 
though  skurce  is  the  common  form), 
and  Donne  and  Dryden  make  great 
rhyme  with  set.  In  the  inscription  on 
Caxton's  tomb  1  find  ynd  for  end, 
which  the  Yankee  more  often  makes 
eend,  still  using  familiarly  the  old 
phrase  "right  anend"  for  "continu- 
ously." His  "stret  (straight)  along" 
in  the  same  sense,  which  I  thought  pe- 
culiar to  him,  I  find  in  Pecock.  Tin- 
dal's  debyfe  for  deputy  is  so  perfectly 
Yankee  that  I  could  almost  fancy  the 
brave  martyr  to  have  been  deacon  of 
the  First  Parish  at  Jaalam  Centre. 
"Jack  Jugler"  further  gives  us  play- 
sent  and  sartayne.  Dryden  rhymes 
certain  with  parting,  and  Chapman 
and  Ben  Jonson  use  certain,  as  the 
Yankee  always  does,  for  certainly. 
The  "Coventry  Mysteries"  have  occa- 
pied,  massage,  nateralle,  materal{ma- 
terial),   and   meracles,  —  all  excellent 


Yankeeisms.  In  the  "Quatre  fils," 
Aymon  (1504),*  is  vertus  tor  virtuous. 
Thomas  Fuller  called  volume  vollum, 
I  suspect,  for  he  spells  it  volutnne. 
However,  per  contra,  Yankees  habitu- 
ally say  cohtme  for  column.  Indeed, 
to  prove  that  our  ancestors  brought 
their  pronunciation  with  them  from  the 
Old  Country,  and  have  not  wantonly 
debased  their  mother  tongue,  I  need 
only  to  cite  the  words  scriptur,  Israll, 
athists,  and  cher/ulness  from  Gover- 
nor Bradford's  "  History."  Brampton 
Gurdon  writes  shet  in  a  letter  to  Win- 
throp.  So  the  good  man  wrote  them, 
and  so  the  good  descendants  of  his  fel- 
low-exiles still  pronounce  them.  Pur- 
tend  (pretend)  has  crep'.  like  a  serpent 
into  the  "Paradise  of  Dainty  De- 
vices" ;  purvide,  which  is  not  so  bad,  is 
in  Chaucer.  These,  of  course,  are  uni- 
versal vulgarisms,  and  not  peculiar  to 
the  Yankee.  Butler  has  a  Yankee 
phrase,  and  pronunciation  too,  in,  "To 
which  these  carr'ings-on  did  tend." 
Langham  or  Laneham,  who  wrote  an 
account  of  the  festivities  at  Kenilworth 
in  honor  of  Queen  Bess,  and  who  evi- 
dently tried  to  spell  phonetically,  makes 
sorrows  into  sororz.  Herrick  writes 
hollow  for  halloo,  and  perhaps  pro- 
nounced it  (horresco  suggerens  .')  holla, 
as  Yankees  do.  Why  not,  when  it 
comes  from  hola.  ?  I  find  Jfela.sc hypf>e 
(fellowship)  in  the  Coventry  Plays. 
Spenser  and  his  queen  neither  of  them 
scrupled  to  write  afore,  and  the  former 
feels  no  inelegance  even  in  chaw  and 
idee.  'Fore  was  common  till  after  Her- 
rick. Dryden  has  do's  tor  does,  and  his 
wife  spells  worse  wosce.  A/eared  was 
once  universal.  Warner  has  ery  for 
ever  a ;  nay,  he  also  has  illy,  with 
which  we  were  once  ignorantly  re- 
proached by  persons  more  familiar  with 
Murray's  Grammar  than  with  English 
literature.  And  why  not  illy  ?  Mr. 
Bartlett  says  it  is  "  a  word  used  by  writ- 
ers of  an  inferior  class,  who  do  not 
seem  to  perceive  that  ///  is  itself  an  ad- 
verb, without  the  termination  ly,"  and 

*  Cited  in  Collier.     (I   give  my  autliorily 
where  I  do  not  quote  from  the  original  Look.| 


INTRODUCTION. 


237 


quotes  Dr.  Messer,  President  of  Brown 
University,  as  asking  triumphantly, 
"Why  don't  you  say  "welly f"  I 
should  like  to  have  had  Dr.  Messer  an- 
swer his  own  question.  It  would  be 
truer  to  say  that  it  was  used  by  people 
who  still  remembered  that  ill  was  aji 
adjective,  the  shortened  form  of  evil, 
out  of  which  Shakespeare  ventured  to 
make  evilly.  The  objection  to  illy  is 
not  an  etymological  one,  but  simply 
that  it  is  contrary  to  good  usage, — a 
very  sufficient  reason.  ///  as  an  adverb 
was  at  first  a  vulgarism,  precisely  like  the 
rustic's  when  he  says,  "I  was  treated 
bad  "  May  not  the  reason  of  this  ex- 
ceptional form  be  looked  for  in  that 
tendency  to  dodge  what  is  hard  to  pro- 
nounce, to  which  I  have  already  allud- 
ed? If  the  letters  were  distinctly  ut- 
tered, as  they  should  be,  it  would  take 
too  much  time  to  say  ill-ly,  well-ly,  and 
it  is  to  be  observed  that  we  have 
avoided  smally*  and  tally  in  the  same 
way,  though  we  add  ish  to  them  with- 
out hesitation  in  smallish  and  tallish. 
We  have,  to  be  sure,  dully  and  fully, 
but  for  the  one  we  prefer  stupidly,  and 
the  other  (though  this  may  have  come 
from  eliding  the  y  before  as)  is  giving 
way  to  full.  The  uneducated,  whose 
utterance  is  slower,  still  make  adverbs 
when  they  will  by  adding  like  to  all 
manner  of  adjectives.  We  have  had 
big  charged  upon  us,  because  we  use  it 
where  an  Englishman  would  now  use 
great.  I  fully  admit  that  it  were  bet- 
ter to  distinguish  between  them,  allow- 
ing to  big  a  certain  contemptuous  qual- 
ity ;  but  as  for  authority,  I  want  none 
better  than  that  of  Jeremy  Taylor, 
who,  in  his  noble  sermon  "  On  the 
Return  of  Prayer,"  speaks  of  "Je- 
sus, whose  spirit  was  meek  and  gen- 
tle up  to  the  greatness  of  the  biggest 
example."  As  for  our  double  nega- 
tive, I  shall  waste  no  time  in  quoting 
instances  of  it,  because  it  was  once  as 
universal  in  English  as  it  still  is  in 
the  neo-  Latin  languages,  where  it  does 
not  strike  us  as  vulgar.     I  am  not  sure 

•  The  word  occurs  in  a  letter  of  Mary  Bo- 
feya. 


that  the  loss  of  it  is  not  to  be  regretted. 
But  surely  I  shall  admit  the  vulgarity 
of  slurring  or  altogether  eliding  certain 
terminal  consonants  ?  I  admit  that  a 
clear  and  sharp-cut  enunciation  is  one 
of  the  crowning  charms  and  elegancies 
of  speech.  Words  so  uttered  are  like 
coins  fresh  from  the  mint,  compared 
with  the  worn  and  dingy  drudges  of 
long  service,  —  I  do  not  mean  Ameri- 
can coins,  for  those  look  less  badly  the 
more  they  lose  of  their  original  ugli- 
ness. No  one  is  more  painfully  con- 
scious than  I  of  the  contrast  between 
the  rifle-crack  of  an  Englishman's  yes 
and  no,  and  the  wet-fuse  drawl  of  the 
same  monosyllables  in  the  mouths  of 
my  countrymen.  But  I  do  not  find  the 
dropping  of  final  consonants  disagreea- 
ble in  Allan  Ramsay  or  Burns,  nor  do 
I  believe  that  our  literary  ancestors 
were  sensible  of  that  inelegance  in  the 
fusing  them  together  of  which  we  are 
conscious.  How  many  educated  men 
pronounce  the  t  in  chestnut  ?  how 
many  say  pentise  for  penthouse,  as 
they  should?  When  a  Yankee  skipper 
says  that  he  is  "  boun'  for  Gloster  " 
(not  Gloucester,  with  the  leave  of  the 
Universal  Schoolmaster),  he  but  speaks 
like  Chaucer  or  an  ola  ballad-singer, 
though  they  would  have  pronounced  it 
boon.  This  is  one  of  the  cases  where 
the  d  is  surreptitious,  and  has  been 
added  in  compliment  to  the  verb  bind, 
with  which  it  has  nothing  to  do.  If  we 
consider  the  root  of  the  word  (though 
of  course  I  grant  that  every  race  has  a 
right  to  do  what  it  will  with  what  is  so 
peculiarly  its  own  as  its  speech),  the  d 
has  no  more  right  there  than  at  the  end 
of  gone,  where  it  is  often  put  by  chil- 
dren, who  are  our  best  guides  to  the 
sources  of  linguistic  corruption,  and 
the  best  teachers  of  its  processes. 
Cromwell,  minister  of  Henry  VIII., 
writes  worle  for  -world.  Chapman  has 
•wan  for  wand,  and  lawn  has  rightful- 
ly displaced  laund,  though  with  no 
thought,  I  suspect,  of  etymology. 
Rogers  tells  us  that  Lady  Bathurst 
sent  him  some  letters  writ»en  to  Wil- 
liam III.  by  Queen  Mary,  in  which  she 
addresses    him  as   "  Dear  Husban." 


a38 


THE   BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


The  old  form  expoun',  which  our  farm- 
ers use,  is  more  correct  than  the  form 
with  a  barbarous  d  tacked  on  which 
has  taken  its  place.  Of  the  kind  oppo- 
site to  this,  like  our  gownd  for  gown., 
and  the  London  cockney's  wind  tor 
■wine,  I  find  drownd  for  drown  in  the 
"Misfortunes  of  Arthur  "  (1584),  and 
in  Swift.  And,  by  the  way,  whence 
came  the  long  sound  of  wind  which 
our  poets  still  retain,  and  which  sur- 
vives in  "  winding  "  a  horn,  a  totally 
different  word  from  "winding"  a  kite- 
string?  We  say  behind  and  hinder 
(comparative),  and  yet  to  hinder. 
Shakespeare  pronounced  kind  kind, 
or  what  becomes  of  his  play  on  that 
word  and  kin  in  Hamlet  ?  Nay,  did 
lie  not  even  (shall  I  dare  to  hint  it?) 
drop  the  final  d  as  the  Yankee  still 
does?  John  Lilly  plays  in  the  same 
way  on  kindred  and  kindness.  But  to 
come  to  some  other  ancient  instances. 
Warner  rhymes  bounds  with  crowns, 
grounds  with  towns,  text  with  sex, 
worst  with  crust,  interrupts  with  cups; 
Drayton,  defects  with  sex  ;  Chapman, 
amends  with  cleanse  ;  Webster,  defects 
with  checks  ;  Ben  Jonson,  minds  with 
combines ;  Marston,  trust  and  obse- 
quious, clothes  and  shows  ;  Dryden 
gives  the  same  sound  to  clothes,  and 
has  also  minds  with  designs  Of 
course,  I  do  not  affirm  that  their  ears 
may  not  have  told  them  that  these  were 
imperfect  rhymes  (though  I  am  by  no 
means  sure  even  of  that),  but  they 
surely  would  never  have  tolerated  any 
such  had  they  suspected  the  least  vul- 
garity in  them.  Prior  has  the  rhvme 
first  and  trust,  but  puts  it  into  the 
mouth  of  a  landlady.  Swift  has  stunted 
and  burnt  it,  an  intentionally  imperfect 
rhyme,  no  doubt,  but  which  I  cite  as 
giving  precisely  the  Yankee  pronuncia- 
tion of  burned.  Donne  couples  in 
unhallowed  wedlock  after  and  matter, 
thus  seeming  to  give  to  both  the  true 
Yankee  sound  ;  and  it  is  not  uncommon 
to  find  after  and  daughter.  Worse 
than  all,  in  one  of  Dodsley's  Old  Plays 
we  have  onions  rhyming  with  minions, 
—  I  have  tears  in  my  eyes  while  I  record 
it     And  yet  what  is  viler  than  the  uni- 


versal Misses  (Ms.)  for  Mistrial 
This  was  once  a  vulgarism,  and  in 
"  The  Miseries  of  Inforced  Marriage  " 
the  rhyme  (printed  as  prose  in  Dods- 
ley's Old  Plays  by  Collier), 

"  To  make  my  young  mistress. 
Delighting  in  kisses," 

is  put  in  the  mouth  of  the  clown.  Our 
people  say  Injun  lor  Indian.  The 
tendency  to  make  this  change  where  i 
follows  d  is  common.  The  Italian 
giorno  and  French  jour  from  diuruus 
are  familiar  examples.  And  yet  Injun. 
is  one  of  those  depravations  which  the 
taste  challenges  peremptorily,  though  it 
have  the  authority  of  Charles  Cotton  — 
who  rhymes  "  Indies  "  with  "  cringes  " 
—  and  four  English  lexicographers,  be- 
ginning with  Dr.  Sheridan,  bid  us  say 
invidgeous.  Yet  after  ali  it  is  no  worse 
than  the  debasement  which  all  our  ter- 
minations in  Hon  and  Hence  have  un- 
dergone, which  yet  we  hear  with  resig- 
nashun  andpayshunce,  though  it  might 
have  aroused  both  impat-i-euce  and 
indigna-ti-on  in  Shakespeare's  time. 
When  George  Herbert  tells  us  that  if 
the  sermon  be  dull, 

"  God  takes  a  text  and  preacheth  pati-ence.** 

the  prolongation  of  the  word  seems  to 
convey  some  hint  at  the  longanimity 
of  the  virtue.  Consider  what  a  poor 
curtal  we  have  made  of  Ocean.  There 
was  something  of  his  heave  and  ex- 
panse in  o-ce-an,  and  Fletcher  knew 
how  to  use  it  when  he  wrote  so  fine  a 
verse  as  the  seennd  of  these,  the  best 
deep-sea  verse  I  know,  — 

"  In  desperate  storms  stem  with  a  little  rud- 
der 
The  tumbling  ruins  of  the  ocean. " 

Oceanus  was  not  then  wholly  shorrr  of 
his  divine  proportions,  and  our  modern 
oshun  sounds  like  the  gush  of  small- 
beer  in  comparison.  Some  other  con- 
tractions of  ours  have  a  vulgar  air 
about  them.  More  '«  for  more  than, 
as  one  of  the  worst,  may  stand  for  a 
type  of  such.  Yet  our  old  dramatists 
are  full  of  such  obscurations  (elisions 
they  can  hardly  be  called)  of  the  Hi, 
making  whe'r  of   whether,   brd'r  of 


INTRODUCTION. 


339 


brother,  smo'r  of  smother,  mo'r  of 
tttotfier,  and  so  on.  Indeed,  it  is  this 
that  explains  the  word  rare  (which  has 
Dryden's  support),  and  which  we  say 
of  meat  where  an  Englishman  would 
use  underdone.  1  do  not  believe,  with 
the  dictionaries,  that  it  had  ever  any- 
thing to  do  with  the  Icelandic  hrdr 
(raw),  as  it  plainly  has  not  in  rareripe, 
which  means  earlier  ripe.  And  1  do 
not  believe  it,  for  this  reason,  that  the 
earlier  form  of  the  word  with  us  was, 
and  the  commoner  now  in  the  inland 
parts  still  is,  so  far  as  I  can  discover, 
raredotie.  1  find  rather  as  a  mono- 
syllable in  Donne,  and  still  better,  as 
giving  the  sound,  rhyming  with  fair  in 
Warner.  The  contraction  more '»  I 
find  in  the  old  play  "  Fuimus  Troes," 
in  a  verse  where  the  measure  is  so 
strongly  accented  as  to  leave  it  beyond 
doubt,  — 

•'  A  golden  crown  whose  heirs 
More  than  half  the  world  subdue." 

It  may  be,  however,  that  the  contrac- 
tion is  in  "  th'  orld."  Is  our  gin  for 
given  more  violent  than  mar'/  for  mar- 
vel, which  was  once  common,  and  which 
I  find  as  late  as  Herrick  ?  Nay,  Her- 
nck  has  gin  (spelling  it  g'en),  too,  as 
do  the  Scotch,  who  agree  with  us  like- 
wise in  preferring  chimly  to  chimney. 

I  will  now  leave  pronunciation  and 
turn  to  words  or  phrases  which  have 
been  supposed  peculiar  to  us,  only  paus- 
ing to  pick  up  a  single  dropped  stitch,  in 
the  pronunciation  of  the  word  sup' rente, 
which  I  had  thought  native  till  I  found 
it  in  the  well-languaged  Daniel.  I 
will  begin  with  a  word  of  which  I  have 
never  met  with  any  example  in  print. 
We  express  the  first  stage  of  withering 
in  a  green  plant  suddenly  cut  down  by 
the  verb  to  wilt.  It  is,  of  course,  own 
cousin  of  the  German  welken,  but  I 
have  never  come  upon  it  in  print,  and 
my  own  books  of  reference  give  me  faint 
help.  Graff  gives  ivelhen,  marcescere, 
and  refers  to  tveih  (weak),  and  conjec- 
turally  to  A.  S  hvelan.  The  A.  S. 
xveaiwian  (to  wither)  is  nearer,  but  not 
so  near  as  two  words  in  the  Icelandic, 
which  perhaps  put  us  on  the  track  of 


its  ancestry,  —  velgi  (lepefacere)  and 
velki,  with  the  derivative  meaning  con- 
taminare.  Wilt,  at  any  rate,  is  a  good 
word,  tilling,  as  it  does,  a  sensible  gap 
between  drooping  and  withering,  and 
the  imaginative  phiase  "  he  wilted 
right  down,"  like  "he  caved  right  in," 
is  a  true  Americanism.  IVilt  occurs 
in  English  provincial  glossaries,  but  is 
explained  by  wither,  which  with  us  it 
does  not  mean.  We  have  a  few  words 
such  as  taclie,  cchog,  carry  (portage), 
shoot  (chute),  timber  (forest),  bush- 
whack  (to  pull  a  boat  along  by  the 
bushes  on  the  edge  of  a  stream),  buck- 
eye (a  picturesque  word  for  the  horse- 
chestnut;  ;  but  how  many  can  we  be 
said  to  have  lairly  brought  into  the  lan- 
guage, as  Alexander  Gill,  who  first 
mentions  Americanisms,  meant  it  when 
he  said,  "  Sed  et  ab  Americanis  non- 
nulla  imduamur  ut  MA1Z  et  canoa  "  ? 
Very  few,  1  suspect,  and  those  mostly 
by  borrowing  from  the  French,  Ger- 
man, Spanish,  or  Indian.  "  The  Dip- 
per" for  the  '.'  Great  Bear  "  strikes  me 
as  having  a  native  air.  Bogus,  in  the 
sense  of  worthless,  is  undoubtedly  ours, 
but  is,  I  more  than  suspect,  a  corrup- 
tion of  the  French  bagasse  (from  low 
Latin  bagasea).  which  travelled  up  the 
Mississippi  from  New  Orleans,  where 
it  was  used  for  the  refuse  of  the  sugar- 
cane. It  is  true  we  have  modified  the 
meaning  of  some  words.  We  use  freshet 
in  the  sense  of  flood,  for  which  I  have 
not  chanced  upon  any  authority.  Our 
New  England  cross  between  Ancient 
Pistol  and  Dugald  Daleettv,  Captain 
Underhill,  uses  the  word  (i6^81  to 
mean  a  current,  and  I  do  not  recollect 
it  elsewhere  in  that  sense.  I  therefore 
leave  it  with  a  ?  for  future  explorers. 
Crick  for  creek  I  find  in  Cantain  John 
Smith  and  in  the  dedication  of  Ful- 
ler's "  Holv  Warre,"  and  run.  mean- 
ing a  small  stream,  in  Waymouth's 
"  Voyage"  (1605).  Httmavs  for  men, 
which  Mr.  Bartlett  includes  in  his 
"  Dictionary  of  Americanisms,"  is 
Chapman's  habitual  phrase  in  his  trans- 
lation of  Homer  I  find  it  a'so  in  the 
old  play  of  "  The  Hog  hath  lost  his 
Pearl."     Dogs  for  andirons  is  still  cur 


240 


THE  BIGLOIV  PAPERS. 


rent  in  New  England,  and  in  Walter 
de  Biblesworth  1  find  chien  glossed  in 
the  margin  by  andirons.  Gunning  lor 
shooting  is  in  Drayton.  We  once  got 
credit  tor  the  poetical  word  /all  lor 
autumn,  but  Mr.  Bartlett  and  the  last 
edition  of  Webster's  Dictionary  refer 
us  to  Dryden.  It  is  even  older,  lor  I 
find  it  in  Drayton,  and  Bishop  Hall 
has  autumn  Jail.  Middieton  plays 
upon  the  word:  "  May'st  thou  have  a 
reasonable  good  spring,  for  thou  art 
like  to  have  many  dangerous  foul/alls." 
Lord  Herbert  of  (Jherbury  (more  prop- 
erly perhaps  than  even  Sidney,  the  last 
preux  chevalier)  has  "the  Emperor's 
folks  "  just  as  a  Yankee  would  say  it. 
Loan  for  lend,  with  which  we  have 
hitherto  been  blackened,  I  must  retort 
upon  the  mother  island,  for  it  appears 
so  long  ago  as  in  "  Albion's  England." 
Fleshy,  in  the  sense  oi  stout,  may  claim 
Ben  Jonson's  warrant.  Chore  is  also 
Jonson's  word,  and  I  am  inclined  to 
prefer  it  to  chare  and  char,  because  I 
think  that  I  see  a  more  natural  origin 

for  it  in  the  French  j'out whence  it 

might  come  to  mean  a  day's  work,  and 
thence  a  job  —  than  anywhere  else.  At 
onst  for  at  once  I  thought  a  corruption 
of  our  own,  till  I  found  it  in  the  Ches- 
ter Plays.  I  am  now  inclined  to  sus- 
pect it  no  corruption  at  all,  but  only  an 
erratic  and  obsolete  superlative  at  o-nest. 

To  progress'  was  flung  in  our  teeth  till 
Mr.  Pickering  retorted  with  Shake- 
speare's "  doth  pro'gress  down  thy 
cheeks."  I  confess  that  I  was  never 
satisfied  with  this  answer,  because  the 
accent  was  different,  and  because  the 
word  might  here  be  reckoned  a  sub- 
stantive quite  as  well  as  a  verb.  Mr. 
Bartlett  (in  his  Dictionary  above  cited) 
adds  a  surrebutter  in  a  verse  from 
Ford's  "Broken  Heart."  Here  the 
word  is  clearly  a  verb,  but  with  the  ac- 
cent unhappily  still  on  the  first  sylla- 
ble. Mr.  Bartlett  says  that  he  "can- 
not say  whether  the  word  was  used  in 
Bacon's  time  or  not."  It  certainly 
was,  and  with  the  accent  we  give  to  it. 
Ben  Jonson,  in  the  "  Alchemist,"  has 
this  verse,  — 

"  Progress'  so  from  extreme  unto  extreme." 


Surely  we  may  now  sleep  in  peace,  and 
our  English  cousins  will  forgive  us, 
since  we  have  cleared  ourselves  from 
any  suspicion  of  originality  in  the  mat- 
ter !  Poor  for  lean,  thirds  for  dower, 
and  dry  for  thirsty  I  find  in  Midd'e- 
ton's  plays.  Dry  is  also  in  Skelton  and 
in  the  "  World  "  (1754).  In  a  note  on 
Middieton,  Mr.  Dyce  thinks  it  needful 
to  explain  the  phiase  /  can't  tell  (uni- 
versal in  America)  by  the  gloss  /  could 
not  say.  Middieton  also  uses  snecked, 
which  I  had  believed  an  Americanism 
till  I  saw  it  there.  It  is,  of  course,  only 
another  form  of  snatch,  analogous  to 
theek  and  thatch  (cf.  the  proper  names 
Dekker  ^nd  Thacher),  break  (brack) 
and  breach,  make  (still  common  with 
us)  and  match.  'Long  on  for  occa- 
sioned by  ("who  is  this  'long  on?") 
occurs  likewise  in  Middieton.  'Cause 
why  is  in  Chaucer.  Raising  (an  Eng- 
lish version  of  the  French  leaven)  for 
yeast  is  employed  by  Gayton  in  his 
"  Festivous  Notes  on  Don  Quixote."  I 
have  never  seen  an  instance  of  our  New 
England  word  emptins  in  the  same 
sense,  nor  can  I  divine  its  original. 
Gayton  has  limehill ;  also  shuts  for 
shutters,  and  the  latter  is  used  by  Mrs. 
Hulchinson  in  her  "  Life  of  Colonel 
Hutchinson."  Bishop  Hall,  and  Pur- 
chas  in  his  "  Pilgrims,"  have  chist  lor 
chest,  and  it  is  certainly  nearer  cista,  as 
well  as  to  its  form  in  the  Teutonic 
languages,  whence  probably  we  got  it. 
We  retain  the  old  sound  in  cist,  but 
chest  is  as  old  as  Chaucer.  Lovelace 
says  ivropt  for  it/rapt.  "  Musicianer  " 
I  had  always  associated  with  the  militia- 
musters  of  my  boyhood,  and  too  has- 
tily concluded  it  an  abomination  of  our 
own,  but  Mr.  Wright  calls  it  a  Norfolk 
word,  and  I  find  it  to  be  as  ok!  as  1642 
by  an  extract  in  Collier.  "  Not  worth 
the  time  of  day"  had  passed  with  me 
for  native  till  I  saw  it  in  Shakespeare's 
"  Pericles."  For  slick  (which  is  only 
a  shorter  sound  of  sleek,  like  crick 
and  the  now  universal  britches  for 
breeches)  I  will  only  call  Chapman  and 
Jonson.  "  That 's  a  sure  card  !  "  and 
"  That  's  a  stinger  !  "  both  sound  like 
modern  slang,  but  you  will  find  the  one 


INTRODUCTION. 


241 


in  the  old  interlude  of  "  Thersytes  " 
(1537),  and  the  other  in  Middleton. 
"  Right  here  "  a  favorite  phrase  with 
our  orators  and  with  a  certain  class  of 
our  editors,  turns  up  passim  in  the 
Chester  ard  Coventry  plays.  Mr. 
Dickens  found  something  very  ludicrous 
in  what  he  considered  our  neologism 
right  away.  But  I  find  a  phrase  very 
like  it,  and  which  I  half  suspect  to  be 
a  misprint  for  it,  in  "Gammer  Gur- 
ton"  :  — 

"  Lyght  it  and  bring  it  lite  away." 

After  all,  what  is  it  but  another  form 
of  straightway  ?  Cussedness,  meaning 
wickedness,  malignity,  and  cuss,  a 
sneaking,  ill-naturari  fellow,  in  such 
phrases  as  "  He  done  it  out  o'  pure 
cussedness,"  and  "  He  is  a  nateral 
cuss,"  have  been  commonly  thought 
Yankeeisms.  To  vent  certain  con- 
temptuously indignant  moods  they  are 
admirable  in  their  rough-and-ready 
way.  But  neither  is  our  own.  Cursyd- 
ttesse,  in  the  same  sense  of  malignant 
wickedness,  occurs  in  the  Coventry 
Plays,  and  cuss  may  perhaps  claim  to 
have  come  in  with  the  Conqueror.  At 
least  the  term  is  also  French.  Saint  Si- 
mon uses  it  and  confesses  its  usefulness. 
Speaking  of  the  Abbe  Dubois  he  says, 
"Qui  etoit  en  plein  ce  qu'un  mauvais 
franc;ois  appelle  un  sacre,  mais  qui  ne 
se  peut  guere  exprimer  autrement." 
"  Not  worth  a  cuss,"  though  supported 
by  "not  worth  a  damn,"  may  be  a 
mere  corruption,  since  "not  worth  a 
cress"  is  in  "  Piers  Ploughman."  "I 
don't  see  it "  was  the  popular  slang  a 
year  or  two  ago,  and  seemed  to  spring 
from  the  soil ;  but  no,  it  is  in  Cibber's 
"  Careless  Husband."  "  Green  sauce  " 
for  vegetables  I  meet  in  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher,  Gayton,  and  elsewhere.  Our 
rustic  pronunciation  sahce  (for  either 
the  diphthong  au  was  anciently  pro- 
nounced ah,  or  else  we  have  followed 
abundant  analogy  in  changing  it  to  the 
latter  sound,  as  we  have  in  chance, 
dance,  and  so  many  more)  may  be  the 
older  one,  and  at  least  gives  some  hint 
at  its  ancestor  salsa.  Warn,  in  the 
sense  of  notify,  is,  I  believe,  now  pe- 
16 


culiar  to  us,  but  Pecock  so  employs  it. 
To  cotton  to  is,  I  rather  think,  an 
Americanism.  The  nearest  approach 
to  it  I  have  found  is  cotton  together,  in 
Congreve's  "  Love  for  Love."  To  cot- 
ton or  cotten,  in  another  sense,  is  old 
and  common.  Our  word  means  to 
cling,  and  its  origin,  possibly,  is  to  be 
sought  in  another  direction,  perhaps  in 
A.  S.  cvead,  which  means  mud,  clay 
(both  proverbially  clinging),  or  better 
yet,  in  the  Icelandic  qvoda  (otherwise 
kid),  meaning  resin  and  glue,  which 
are  xar'  e$oxyv  sticky  substances.  To 
spit  cotton  is,  I  think,  American,  and 
also,  perhaps,  to  flax  {ox  to  beat.  To 
the  halves  still  survives  among  us, 
though  apparently  obsolete  in  England. 
It  means  either  to  let  or  to  hire  a  piece 
of  land,  receiving  half  the  profit  in 
money  or  in  kind  (partibus  locare).  I 
mention  it  because  in  a  note  by  some 
English  editor,  to  which  I  have  lost 
my  reference,  I  have  seen  it  wrongly 
explained.  The  editors  of  Nares  cite 
Burton.  To  put,  in  the  sense  of  to  go, 
as  Tut  !  for  Begone  !  would  seem  our 
own,  and  yet  it  is  strictly  analogous  to 
the  French  se  tnetlre  a  la  voie,  and  the 
Italian  mettersi  in  vim.  Indeed,  Danta 
has  a  verse, 

"  Io  sarei  [for  mi  sarei)  gici  messo  per  to 
sentiero" 

which,  but  for  the  indignity,  might  be 
translated, 

"  I  should,  ere  this,  have/«/  along  the  way." 

I  deprecate  in  advance  any  share 
in  General  Banks's  notions  of  inter- 
national law,  but  we  may  all  take  a 
just  pride  in  his  exuberant  eloquence 
as  something  distinctively  American. 
When  he  spoke  a  few  years  ago  of 
"letting  the  Union  slide,"  even  those 
who,  for  political  purposes,  reproached 
him  with  the  sentiment,  admired  the 
indigenous  virtue  of  his  phrase.  Yet  I 
find  "let  the  world  slide"  in  Hey- 
wood's  "Edward  IV.";  and  in  Beau- 
mont and  Fletcher's  "  Wit  without 
Money"  Valentine  says, 

"  Will  you  go  drink, 
And  let  the  world  sUdef  " 


2+2 


THE  BIGLOJV  PAPERS. 


In  the  one  case  it  is  put  into  the  mouth 
of  a  clown,  in  the  other,  of  a  gentle- 
man, and  was  evidently  proverbial.  It 
has  even  higher  sanction,  for  Chaucer 
writes, 

"  Well  nigh  all  other  cures  let  he  slide." 

Mr.  Bartlett  gives  "above  one's  bend  " 
as  an  Americanism  ;  but  compare  Ham- 
let's "to  the  top  of  my  bent."  In  his 
tracks  for  immediately  has  acquired  an 
American  accent,  and  passes  where  he 
can  for  a  native,  but  is  an  importation 
nevertheless  ;  for  what  is  he  but  the 
Latin  e  vestigio,  or  at  best  the  Norman 
French  eueslespas,  both  which  have 
the  same  meaning?  Hotfoot  (provin- 
cial also  in  England),  I  find  in  the  old 
romance  of  "Tristan," 

"Sis'en  parti  CHAUT  PAS." 

Like  for  as  is  never  used  in  New  Eng- 
land, but  is  universal  in  the  South  and 
West.  It  has  on  its  side  the  authority 
of  two  kings  [ego  sum  rex  Romano- 
rum  et  supra  grammalicam),  Henry 
VIII.  and  Charles  I.  This  were  am- 
ple, without  throwing  into  the  scale  the 
scholar  and  poet  Daniel.  Them  was 
used  as  a  nominative  by  the  majesty  of 
Edward  VI.,  by  Sir  P.  Hoby,  and  by 
Lord  Paget  (in  Froude's  "History"). 
I  have  never  seen  any  passage  adduced 
where  guess  was  used  as  the  Yankee 
uses  it.  The  word  was  familiar  in  the 
mouths  of  our  ancestors,  but  with  a  dif- 
ferent shade  of  meaning  from  that  we 
have  given  it,  which  is  something  like 
rather  think,  though  the  Yankee  im- 
plies a  confident  certainty  by  it  when 
he  says,  "I  guess  I  duV  There  are 
two  examples  in  Otway,  one  of  which 
("So  in  the  struggle,  I  guess  the  note 
was  lost")  perhaps  might  serve  our 
purpose,  and  Coleridge's 

"  I  guess  't  was  fearful  there  to  see  " 

certainly  comes  very  near.  But  I  have 
a  higher  authority  than  either  in  Sei- 
dell, who,  in  one  of  his  notes  to  the 
"  Polyolbion,"  writes,  "  The  first  in- 
ventor of  them  (I  guess  you  dislike  not 
the  addition)  wasoneBerthold  Swartz." 
Here  he  must  mean  by  it,  "  I  take  it 


for  granted."  Another  peculiarity  aU 
most  as  prominent  is  the  beginning 
sentences,  especially  in  answer  to  ques* 
tions,  with  "  well."  Put  before  such  a 
phrase  as  "  How  d'e  do  ?  "  it  is  com- 
monly short,  and  has  the  sound  of  wul, 
but  in  reply  it  is  deliberative,  and  the 
various  shades  of  meaning  which  can 
be  conveyed  by  difference  of  intonation, 
and  by  prolonging  or  abbreviating,  I 
should  vainly  attempt  to  describe.  I 
have  heard  ooaahl,  wahl,  aht,  ival, 
and  something  nearly  approaching  the 
sound  of  the  le  in  able.  Sometimes  be- 
fore "  I  "  it  dwindles  to  a  mere  /,  as 
"  '1  I  dunno."  A  friend  of  mine  (why 
should  I  not  please  myself,  though  I 
displease  him,  by  brightening  my  page 
with  the  initials  of  the  most  exquisite 
of  humorists,  J  H.  ?)  told  me  that  he 
once  heard  five  "wells,"  like  pioneers, 
precede  the  answer  to  an  inquiry  about 
the  price  of  land.  The  first  was  the 
ordinary  wul,  in  deference  to  custom  ; 
the  second,  the  long,  perpending  ooahl, 
with  a  falling  inflection  of  tin.  voice  ; 
the  third,  the  same,  but  with  the  voice 
rising,  as  if  in  despair  of  a  conclusion, 
into  a  plaintively  nasal  whine ;  the 
fourth,  ivulh,  ending  in  the  aspirate  of 
a  sigh  ;  and  then,  fifth,  came  a  short, 
sharp  wal,  showing  that  a  conclusion 
had  been  reached.  I  have  used  this 
latter  form  in  the  "  Biglow  Papers," 
because,  if  enough  nasality  be  added, 
it  represents  most  nearly  the  average 
sound  of  what  I  may  cail  the  interjec- 
tion. 

A  locution  prevails  in  the  Southern 
and  Middle  States  which  is  so  curious 
that,  though  never  heard  in  New  Eng- 
land, I  will  give  a  few  lines  to  its  dis- 
cussion, the  more  readily  because  it  is 
extinct  elsewhere.  I  mean  the  use  of 
allow  in  the  sense  of  affirm,  as  "  I 
allow  that  's  a  good  horse  "  I  find  the 
word  so  used  in  1558  by  Anthony  Jen- 
kinson  in  Hakluyt  :  "  Corne  they  sowe 
not,  neither  doe  eate  any  bread,  mock- 
ing the  Christians  for  the  same,  and 
disabling  our  strengthe,  saying  we  live 
by  eating  the  toppe  of  a  weede,  and 
drinke  a  drinke  made  of  the  same, 
allowing  theyr  great  devouring  of  flesh 


INTRODUCTION. 


243 


»nd  drinking  of  milke  to  be  the  in- 
crease of  theyr  strength."  That  is, 
they  undervalued  our  strength,  and 
affirmed  their  own  to  be  the  result  of 
a  certain  diet.  In  another  passage  of 
the  same  narrative  the  word  has  its 
more  common  meaning  of  approving 
or  praising  :  "  The  said  king,  much 
allowing  this  declaration,  said."  Du- 
cange  quotes  Bracton  sub  voce  adlo- 
care  for  the  meaning  "to  admit  as 
proved,"  and  the  transition  from  this 
to  "  affirm  "  is  by  no  means  violent. 
At  the  same  time,  when  we  consider 
some  of  the  meanings  of  allow  in  old 
English,  and  of  allouer  in  old  French, 
and  also  remember  that  the  verbs  prize 
and/raii^are  from  one  root,  I  think 
we  must  admit  allaudare  to  a  share  in 
the  paternity  of  allow.  The  sentence 
from  Hakluyt  would  read  equally  well, 
"contemning  our  strengthe,  ....  and 
praising  (or  valuing)  their  great  eating 
of  flesh  as  the  cause  of  their  increase 
in  strength."  After  all,  if  we  confine 
ourselves  to  allocare,  it  may  turn  out 
that  the  word  was  somewhere  and 
somewhen  used  for  to  bet,  analogously 
to  put  up,  put  down,  post  (cf.  Spanish 
apostar),  and  the  like.  I  hear  boys  in 
the  street  continually  saying,  "  I  bet 
that 's  a  good  horse,"  or  what  not, 
meaning  by  no  means  to  risk  anything 
beyond  their  opinion  in  the  matter. 

The  word  improve,  in  the  sense  of 
"to  occupy,  make  use  of,  employ,"  as 
Dr.  Pickering  defines  it,  he  long  ago 
proved  to  be  no  neologism.  He  would 
nave  done  better,  I  think,  had  he  sub- 
stituted profit  by  for  employ.  He  cites 
Dr.  Franklin  as  saying  that  the  word 
had  never,  so  far  as  he  knew,  been  used 
in  New  England  before  he  left  it  in 
1723,  except  in  Dr.  Mather's  "  Re- 
markable Providences,"  which  he 
oddly  calls  a  "  very  old  book."  Frank- 
lin, as  Dr.  Pickering  goes  on  to  show, 
was  mistaken.  Mr.  Bartlett  in  his 
"  Dictionary"  merely  abridges  Pick- 
ering. Both  of  them  should  have  con- 
fined the  application  of  the  word  to 
material  things,  its  extension  to  which 
is  all  that  is  peculiar  in  the  supposed 
American  use  of  it.     For  sorely  "  Com- 


plete Letter- Writers"  have  been  "  im- 
proving  this  opportunity  "  time  out  of 
mind.  I  will  illustrate  the  word  a  lit- 
tle further,  because  Pickering  cites  no 
English  authorities.  Skelton  has  a 
passage  in  his  "  Phyllyp  Sparowe," 
which  I  quote  the  rather  as  it  contains 
also  the  word  allowed,  and  as  it  dis- 
tinguishes improve  from  employ  :  — 

"  His  [Chaucer's]  Englysh  well  alowed, 
So  as  it  is  enpnnvea. 
For  as  it  is  enployd, 
There  is  no  English  voyd." 

Here  the  meaning  is  to  profit  by.  In 
Fuller's  "Holy  Warre "  (1647),  we 
have  "The  Egyptians  standing  on  the 
firm  ground,  were  thereby  enabled  to 
improve  and  enforce  their  darts  to  the 
utmost."  Here  the  word  might  cer- 
tainly mean  to  make  use  of.  Mrs. 
Hutchinson  (Life  of  Colonel  H  )  uses 
the  word  in  the  same  way  :  "  And  there- 
fore did  not  emproove  his  interest  to 
engace  the  country  in  the  quarrell."  I 
find  it  also  in  "  Strength  out  of  Weak- 
ness" (1652),  and  Plutarch's  "Mor- 
als" (1714),  but  I  know  of  only  one 
example  of  its  use  in  the  purely  Amer- 
ican sense,  and  that  is,  "a  very  good 
improvement  for  a  mill  "  in  the  "  State 
Trials"  (Speech  of  the  Attorney-Gen- 
eral in  the  Lady  Ivy's  case,  1684). 
Swift  in  one  of  his  letters  says  :  "  There 
is  not  an  acre  of  land  in  Ireland  turned 
to  half  its  advantage ;  yet  it  is  better 
improved  than  the  people."*  In  the 
sense  of  employ,  I  could  cite  a  dozen 
old  English  authorities. 

In  running  over  the  fly-leaves  of 
those  delightful  folios  for  this  reference, 
I  find  a  note  which  reminds  me  of  an- 
other word,  for  our  abuse  of  which  we 
have  been  deservedly  ridiculed.  I 
mean  lady.  It  is  true  I  might  cite  the 
example  of  the  Italian  donna  \  (domi- 
na),  which  has  been  treated  in  the 
same  way  by  a  whole  nation,  and  not, 
as  lady  among  us,  by  the  uncultivated 
only.  It  perhaps  grew  into  use  in  the 
half-democratic  republics  of  Italy  in 
the  same  way  and  for  the  same  reasons 

*  Swift,  letter  to  Brandorth,  O.  K.  I.,  154- 
t  Dame,  in  English,  is  a  decayed  gentle- 
woman of  the  same  family. 


*44 


THE  B I  GLOW  PAPERS. 


as  with  us.  But  I  admit  that  our  abuse 
of  the  word  is  villanous.  I  know  of  an 
orator  who  once  said  in  a  public  meet- 
ing where  bonnets  preponderated,  that 
"  the  ladies  were  last  at  the  cross  and 
first  at  the  tomb"!  But  similar  sins 
were  committed  before  our  day  and  in 
the  mother  country.  In  the  "  State 
Trials "  I  learn  of  "  a  gentlewoman 
that  lives  cook  with  "  such  a  one,  and 
1  hear  the  Lord  High  Steward  speak- 
ing of  the  wife  of  a  waiter  at  a  bagnio 
as  a  gentlewoman !  From  the  same 
authority,  by  the  way,  I  can  state  that 
our  vile  habit  of  chewing  tobacco  had 
the  somewhat  unsavory  example  of  Ti- 
tus Oates,  and  I  know  by  tradition  from 
an  eye-witness  that  the  elegant  General 
Burgoyne  partook  of  the  same  vice. 
Howell,  in  one  of  his  letters  (dated 
26  August,  1623),  speaks  thus  of  an- 
other "institution"  which  many  have 
thought  American :  "  They  speak 
much  of  that  boisterous  Bishop  of  Hal- 
verstadt  (for  so  they  term  him  here), 
that,  having  taken  a  place  wher  ther 
were  two  Monasteries  of  Nuns  and 
Friers,  he  caus'd  divers  feather-beds  to 
be  rip'd,  and  all  the  feathers  to  be 
thrown  in  a  great  Hall,  whither  the 
Nuns  and  Friers  were  thrust  naked 
with  their  bodies  oil'd  and  pitch'd,  and 
to  tumble  among  the  feathers."  How- 
ell speaks  as  if  the  thing  were  new  to 
him,  and  I  know  not  if  the  "boister- 
ous "  Bishop  was  the  inventor  of  it, 
but  I  find  it  practised  in  England  be- 
fore our  Revolution. 

Before  leaving  the  subject,  I  will 
add  a  few  comments  made  from  time  to 
time  on  the  margin  of  Mr.  Bartlett's 
excellent  "Dictionary,"  to  which  I 
am  glad  thus  publicly  to  acknowledge 
my  many  obligations.  "Avails"  is 
good  old  English,  and  the  vails  of  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds's  porter  are  famous. 
Averse  from,  averse  to,  and  in  connec- 
tion with  them  the  English  vulgarism 
"different  to."  The  corrupt  use  of  to 
in  these  cases,  as  well  as  in  the  Yan- 
kee "he  lives  to  Salem,"  "  to  home," 
and  others,  must  be  a  very  old  one,  for 
in  the  one  case  it  plainly  arose  from 
confounding  the  two   French  preposi- 


tions a  (from  Latin  ad  and  ab),  and  in 
the  other  from  translating  the  first  of 
them.  I  once  thought  "different  to" 
a  modern  vulgarism,  and  Mr.  Thacke- 
ray, on  my  pointing  it  out  to  him  in 
"  Henry  Esmond,"  confessed  it  to  be 
an  anachronism.  Mr.  Bartlett  refers 
to  "  the  old  writers  quoted  in  Richard- 
son's Dictionary"  for  "different  to," 
but  in  my  edition  of  that  work  all  the 
examples  are  with  from.  But  I  find 
to  used  invariably  by  Sir  R  Hawkins 
in  Hakluyt.  Banjo  is  a  negro  corrup- 
tion of  O.  E.  bandore.  Bindweed 
can  hardly  be  modern,  for  woodbind 
is  old  and  radically  right,  intertwining 
itself  through  bindan  and  windan  with 
classic  stems.  Bobolink  :  is  this  a 
contraction  for  Bob  o'  Lincoln  ?  1  find 
bobolynes,  in  one  of  the  poems  attrib- 
uted to  Skelton,  where  it  may  be  ren- 
dered giddy-pate,  a  term  very  fit  for 
the  bird  in  his  ecstasies.  Cruel  for 
great  is  in  Hakluyt.  Bowling-alley  is 
in  Nash's  "  Pierce  Pennilesse."  Curi- 
ous, meaning  nice,  occurs  continually 
in  old  writers,  and  is  as  old  as  Pecock's 
"  Repressor."  Droger  is  O.  E.  drug- 
ger.  Educational  is  in  Burke,  feeze 
is  only  a  form  of  fizz.  To  fix,  in  the 
American  sense,  I  find  used  by  the 
Commissioners  of  the  United  Colonies 
so  early  as  1675,  "  their  arms  welly? xed 
and  fit  for  service."  To  take  the  foot 
in  the  hand  is  German  ;  so  is  to  go 
under.  Gundalow  is  old  :  I  find  gun- 
delo  in  Hakluyt,  and  giendello  in 
Booth's  reprint  of  the  folio  Shake- 
speare of  1623.  Gonoff  is  O.  E.  gnoffe. 
Heap  is  in  "  Piers  Ploughman  "  ("  and 
other  names  an  heep  "),  and  in  Hak- 
luyt ("  seeing  such  a  heap  of  their  ene- 
mies ready  to  devour  them").  To  li- 
quor is  in  the  "Puritan"  ("call  'em 
in,  and  liquor  'em  a  little  ").  To  loaf: 
this,  I  think,  is  unquestionably  Ger- 
man. Lanfen  is  pronounced  lofen  in 
some  parts  of  Germany,  and  I  once 
heard  one  German  student  say  to 
another,  Ich  lauf  (lofe)  hier  bis  dit 
wiederkehrest,  and  he  began  according- 
ly to  saunter  up  and  down,  in  short,  to 
loaf.  To  mull,  Mr  Bartlett  says, 
means   "to  soften,   to  dispirit,"    and 


INTRODUCTION. 


*4S 


quotes  from  "  Margaret,"  —  "  There 
has  been  a  pretty  considerable  muffin 
going  on  among  the  doctors,"  —  where 
it  surely  cannot  mean  what  he  says  it 
does.  We  have  always  heard  mulling 
used  for  stirring,  bustling,  sometimes 
in  an  underhand  way.  It  is  a  meta- 
phor derived  probably  from  mulling 
wine,  and  the  word  itself  must  be  a 
corruption  of  mell,  from  O.  F,  mesler. 
Pair  of  stairs  is  in  Hakluyt.  1  o  pull 
up  stakes  is  in  Curwen's  Journal,  and 
therefore  pre- Revolutionary.  1  think 
I  have  met  with  it  earlier.  Raise : 
under  this  word  Mr.  Bartlett  omits  "  to 
raise  a  house,"  that  is,  the  frame  of  a 
wooden  one,  and  also  the  substantive 
formed  from  it,  a  raisin'.  Retire  for 
go  to  bed  is  in  Fielding's  "Amelia." 
Setting-poles  cannot  be  new,  for  I  find 
"soraea/  [the  boats]  with  long  poles  " 
in  Hakluyt.  Shoulder-hitters  :  I  find 
that  shoulder-striker  is  old,  though  I 
have  lost  the  reference  to  my  authori- 
ty. Snag  is  no  new  word,  though  per- 
haps the  Western  application  of  it  is 
so  ;  but  I  find  in  Gill  the  proverb,  "  A 
bird  in  the  bag  is  worth  two  on  the 
snag."  Dryden  has  swop  and  to 
rights.  Trail :  Hakluyt  has  "  many 
wayes  traled  by  the  wilde  beastes." 

I  subjoin  a  few  phrases  not  in  Mr. 
Bartlett's  book  which  I  have  heard. 
Bald-headed:  "to  go  it  bald-head- 
ed " ;  in  great  haste,  as  where  one 
rushes  out  without  his  hat.  Bogue  : 
"  I  don't  git  much  done  'thout  I  bogue 
right  in  along  'th  my  men."  Carry: 
a  portage.  Cat-nap :  a  short  doze. 
Cat-stick :  a  small  stick.  Chowder- 
head :  a  muddle-brain.  Cling-john  : 
a  soft  cake  of  rye.  Cocoa-nut :  the 
head.  Cohees1  :  applied  to  the  people 
of  certain  settlements  in  Western 
Pennsylvania,  from  their  use  of  the 
archaic  form  Quo'  he.  Dunnow 'z  / 
know  :  the  nearest  your  true  Yankee 
ever  comes  to  acknowledging  igno- 
rance. Essence-pedler:  a  skunk. 
First-rate  and  a  half.  Fish-flakes, 
for  drying  fish  :  O.  E.  fleck  (cratis). 
Gander-party :  a  social  gathering  of 
men  only.  Gawnicus  :  a  dolt.  Hawk- 
im's  whetstone :  rum  ;   in  derision  0/ 


one  Hawkins,  a  well-known  tem- 
perance-lecturer. Hyper  :  to  bustle  : 
"  I  mus'  hyper  about  an'  git  tea." 
Kecler-tub :  one  in  which  dishes  are 
washed.  ("  And  Greasy  Joan  doth 
keel  the  pot.")  Laptea  :  where  the 
guests  are  too  many  10  sit  at  table. 
Last  of  pea-time :  to  be  hard  up. 
Lose  -  laid ,  loose-laid)  :  a  weaver's  term, 
and  probably  English  ;  weak-willed. 
Ajalahack :  to  cut  up  hastily  or  awk- 
wardly. Aloongladc  :  a  beautiful  word 
for  the  track  of  moonlight  on  the 
water.  Off-ox :  an  unmanageable, 
cross-grained  fellow  Old  Driver, 
Old  Splitfoot ;  the  Devil.  Onhitch: 
to  pull  trigger  (cf  Spanish  disparar). 
Popular:  conceited.  Rote:  sound  of 
surf  before  a  storm.  Rot-gut:  cheap 
whiskey  ;  the  word  occurs  in  Hey- 
wood's  "  English  Traveller  "  and  Ad- 
dison's "Drummer,"  for  a  poor  kind 
of  drink.  Seem  :  it  is  habitual  with 
the  New-Englander  to  put  this  verb  to 
strange  uses,  as,  "  I  can't  seem  to  be 
suited,"  "  I  couldn't  seem  to  know 
him."  Sidehill,  for  hillside.  State- 
house  :  this  seems  an  Americanism, 
whether  invented  or  derived  from  the 
Dutch  Stadhuys,  I  know  not.  Strike 
and  string:  from  the  game  of  nine- 
pins ;  to  make  a  strike  is  to  knock 
down  all  the  pins  with  one  ball,  hence 
it  has  come  to  mean  fortunate,  success- 
ful. Swampers  :  men  who  break  out 
roads  for  lumberers.  Tormented: 
euphemism  for  damned,  as,  "not  a 
tormented  cent."  Virginia  fence,  to 
make  a:  to  walk  like  a  drunken  man. 
It  is  always  worth  while  to  note  down 
the  erratic  words  or  phrases  which  one 
meets  with  in  any  dialect.  They  may 
throw  light  on  the  meaning  of  other 
words,  on  the  relationship  of  languaees, 
or  even  on  history  itself.  In  so  com- 
posite a  language  as  ours  they  often 
supply  a  different  form  to  express  a 
different  shade  of  meaning  as  in  viol 
and  fiddle,  tkrid  and  thread,  smother 
and  smoulder,  where  the  /  his  crept 
in  by  a  false  analogy  with  would.  We 
have  given  back  to  England  the  ex- 
cellent adjective  lengthy,  formed  hon- 
estly like  earthy,  droulhy,  and  others, 


Kffo 


THE  B I  GLOW  PAPERS. 


thus  enabling  their  journalists  to  char- 
acterize our  President's  messages  by  a 
word  civilly  compromising  between 
long  and  tedious,  so  as  not  to  endan- 
ger the  peace  of  the  two  countries  by 
wounding  our  national  sensitiveness  to 
British  criticism.  Let  me  give  two 
curious  examples  of  the  antiseptic 
property  of  dialects  at  which  I  have 
already  glanced.  Dante  has  dindi  as 
a  childish  or  low  word  for  danari 
(money),  and  in  Shropshire  small  Ro- 
man coins  are  still  dug  up  which  the 
peasants  call  dinders.  This  can  hardly 
be  a  chance  coincidence,  but  seems 
rather  to  carry  the  word  back  to  the 
Roman  soldiery.  So  our  farmers  say 
chuk,  chuk,  to  their  pigs,  and  ciacco 
is  one  of  the  Italian  words  for  hog. 
When  a  countryman  tells  us  that  he 
"  fell  all  of  a  heap"  I  cannot  help 
thinking  that  he  unconsciously  points 
to  an  affinity  between  our  word  tumble, 
and  the  Latin  tumulus,  that  is  older 
than  most  others.  1  believe  that  words, 
or  even  the  mere  intonation  of  them, 
have  an  astonishing  vitality  and  power 
of  propagation  by  the  root,  like  the 
gardener's  pest,  quitch-grass,*  while 
the  application  or  combination  of  them 
may  be  new.  It  is  in  these  last  that 
my  countrymen  seem  to  me  full  of 
humor,  invention,  quickness  of  wit, 
and  that  sense  of  subtle  analogy  which 
needs  only  refining  to  become  fancy  and 
imagination.  Prosaic  as  American  life 
seems  in  many  of  its  aspects  to  a 
European,  bleak  and  bare  as  it  is  on 
the  side  of  tradition,  and  utterly  or- 
phaned of  the  solemn  inspiration  of  an- 
tiquity, I  cannot  help  thinking  that  the 
ordinary  talk  of  unlettered  men  among 
us  is  fuller  of  metaphor  and  of  phrases 
that  suggest  lively  images  than  that  of 
any  other  people  I  have  seen.  Very 
many  such  will  be  found  in  Mr.  Bart- 
lett's  book,  though  his  short  list  of 
proverbs  at  the  end  seem  to  me,  with 
one  or  two  exceptions,  as  un-American 
as  possible.     Most  of  them   have   no 

•  Which,  whether  in  that  form,  or  under 
its  aliases  7t>»fc4-grass  and  roorA-grass,  points 
us  back  to  its  original  Saxon  quick. 


character  at  all  but  coarseness,  and  an* 
quite  too  long-skirted  for  working  prov- 
erbs, in  which  language  always  "  takes 
off  its  coat  to  it,"  as  a  Yankee  would 
say.  There  are  plenty  that  have  a 
more  native  and  puckery  flavor,  seed- 
lings from  the  old  stock  often,  and  yet 
new  varieties.  One  hears  such  not 
seldom  among  us  Easterners,  and  the 
West  would  yield  many  more.  "  Mean 
enough  to  steal  acoms  from  a  blind 
hog  "  ;  "  Cold  as  the  north  side  of  a 
Jenooary  gravestone  by  starlight "  ; 
"  Hungry  as  a  graven  image  "  ;  "  Pop'- 
lar  as  a  hen  with  one  chicken " ; 
"  Quicker  'n  greased  lightnin'  "  ; 
"  Ther  's  sech  a  thing  ez  bein'  tu"  ; 
"  Stingy  enough  to  skim  his  milk  at 
both  eends  "  ;  "  Hot  as  the  Devil's 
kitchen  "  ;  "  Handy  as  a  pocket  in  a 
shirt  "  ;  "  He  's  a  whole  team  and 
the  dog  under  the  wagon  "  ;  "  All 
deacons  are  good,  but  there  's  odds  in 
deacons  "  (to  deacon  berries  is  to  put 
the  largest  atop);  "So  thievish  they 
hev  to  take  in  their  stone  walls 
nights  "  ;  *  may  serve  as  specimens. 
"  I  take  my  tea  barfoot"  said  a 
backwoodsman  when  asked  if  he  would 
have  cream  and  sugar.  (I  find  barfoot, 
by  the  way,  in  the  Coventry  Plays.)  A 
man  speaking  to  me  once  of  a  very 
rocky  clearing  said,  "  Stone  's  got  a  pret- 
ty heavy  mortgage  on  that  land,"  and 
I  overheard  a  guide  in  the  woods  say 
to  his  companions  who  were  urging 
him  to  sing,  "  Wal,  I  did  sing  once, 
but  toons  gut  invented,  an'  thet  spilt 
my  trade."  Whoever  has  driven  over 
a  stream  by  a  bridge  made  of  slabs  will 
feel  the  picturesque  force  of  the  epithet 
slab-bridged  applied  to  a  fellow  of 
shaky  character.  Almost  every  county 
has  some  good  die-sinker  in  phrase, 
whose  mintage  passes  into  the  cur- 
rency of  the  whole  neighborhood.  Such 
a  one  described  the  county  jail  (the  one 
stone  building  where  all  the  dwellings 
are  of  wood)  as  "  the  house  whose  un- 
derpinnin'  come  up  to  the  eaves,"   and 

•  Aid,  by  tlie  way,  the  Yankee  never  says 
"o'  nights,"  but  uses  the  older  adverbial 
form,  antilogous  to  the  German  nachts. 


INTRODUCTION. 


247 


called  hell  '  the  place  where  they 
did  n't  rake  up  their  fires  nights." 
I  once  asked  a  stage-driver  if  the  ocher 
side  of  a  hill  were  as  steep  as  the  one 
we  were  climbing  :  "  Steep  ?  diam- 
hghtnin'  could  n'  go  down  it  'thout 
puttin'  the  shoe  on  !  "  And  this  brings 
me  back  to  the  exaggeration  of  which 
I  spoke  before.  To  me  there  is  some- 
thing very  taking  in  the  negro  "so 
black  that  charcoal  made  a  chalk-mark 
on  him,"  and  the  wooden  shingle 
"painted  so  like  marble  that  it  sank 
in  water,"  as  if  its  very  consciousness 
or  its  vanity  had  been  over-persuaded 
by  the  cunning  of  the  painter.  I  heard 
a  man,  in  order  to  give  a  notion  of 
some  very  cold  weather,  say  to  another 
that  a  certain  Joe,  who  had  been  taking 
mercury,  found  a  lump  of  quicksilver  in 
each  boot,  when  he  went  home  to 
dinner.  This  power  of  rapidly  drama- 
tizing a  dry  fact  into  flesh  and  blood, 
and  the  vivid  conception  of  Joe  as  a 
human  thermometer,  strike  me  as  show- 
ing a  poetic  sense  that  may  be  refined 
into  faculty.  At  any  rate  there  is  hu- 
mor here,  and  not  mere  quickness  of 
wit,  —  the  deeper  and  not  the  shal- 
lower quality.  The  tendency  of  humor 
is  always  towards  overplus  of  expres- 
sion, while  the  very  essence  of  wit  is  its 
logical  precision.  Captain  Basil  Hall 
denied  that  our  people  had  any  humor, 
deceived,  perhaps,  by  their  gravity  of 
manner.  But  this  very  seriousness  is 
often  the  outward  sign  of  that  humorous 
quality  of  the  mind  which  delights  in 
finding  an  element  of  identity  in  things 
seemingly  the  most  incongruous,  and 
then  again  in  forcing  an  incongruity 
upon  things  identical.  Perhaps  Cap- 
tain Hall  had  no  humor  himself,  and  if 
so  he  would  never  find  it.  Did  he 
always  feel  the  point  of  what  was  said 
to  himself?  I  doubt  it,  because  I  happen 
to  know  a  chance  he  once  had  given 
him  in  vain.  The  Captain  was  walk- 
ing up  and  down  the  veranda  of  a 
country  tavern  in  Massachusetts  while 
the  coach  changed  horses.  A  thunder- 
storm was  going  on,  and,  with  that 
pleasant  European  air  of  indirect  self- 
compliment   iu  condescending    to    be 


surprised  by  American  merit,  which  we 
find  so  conciliating,  he  said  to  a  coun- 
tryman lounging  against  the  door, 
"Pretty  heavy  thunder  you  have  here." 
The  other,  who  had  divined  at  a 
glance  his  feeling  of  generous  conces- 
sion to  a  new  country,  drawled  gravely, 
"Waal,  we  du,  considerin'  the  number 
of  inhabitants."  This,  the  more  I  an- 
alyze it,  the  more  humorous  does  it 
seem.  The  same  man  was  capable  of 
wit  also,  when  he  would.  He  was  a 
cabinet-maker,  and  was  once  employed 
to  make  some  commandment-tables  tor 
the  parish  meeting-house.  The  parson, 
a  very  old  man,  annoyed  him  by  look- 
ing into  his  workshop  every  morning, 
and  cautioning  him  to  be  very  sure  to 
pick  out  "  clear  mahogany  without  any 
knots  in  it."  At  last,  wearied  out,  he 
retorted  one  day :  "  Wal,  Dr.  B.,  I 
guess  ef  I  was  to  leave  the  nois  out  o' 
some  o'  the  c'man'ments,  't  'ould  soot 
you  full  ez  wal  ! " 

If  I  had  taken  the  pains  to  write 
down  the  proverbial  or  pithy  phrases 
I  have  heard,  or  if  I  had  sooner  thought 
of  noting  the  Yankeeisms  I  met  with  in 
my  reading,  I  might  have  been  able  to 
do  more  justice  to  my  theme.  But  I 
have  done  all  I  wished  in  respect  to 
pronunciation,  if  I  have  proved  that 
where  we  are  vulgar,  we  have  the  coun- 
tenance of  very  good  company.  For,  as 
to  the  jus  et  norma  loquendi,  I  agree 
with  Horace  and  those  who  have  para- 
phrased or  commented  him,  from  Boi- 
leau  to  Gray.  I  think  that  a  good  rule 
for  style  is  Galiani's  definition  of  sub- 
lime oratory,  —  "l'art  de  tout  dire  sans 
etre  mis  a  la  Bastille  dansun  pays  ou  il 
est  deTendu  de  rien  dire."  I  profess  my- 
self a  fanatical  purist,  but  with  a  hearty 
contempt  for  the  speech-gilders  who 
affect  purism  without  any  thorough,  or 
even  pedagogic,  knowledge  of  the  en- 
gendure,  growth,  and  affinities  of  the 
noble  language  about  whose  mesal- 
liances they  profess  (like  Dean  Alford) 
to  be  so  solicitous.  If  they  had  their 
way  —  !  "  Doch  es  sey,"  says  Lea- 
sing, "  dass  jene  gothische  Hoflichkeit 
eine  unentbehrliche  Tugend  des  heu- 
tigen  Umganges  ist.      Soil  sie  darunt 


248 


THE   B1GLOW  PAPERS. 


unsere  Schriften  eben  so  schaal  und 
falsch  machen  als  unsem  Unigang?" 
And  Drayton  was  not  tar  wrong  in  af- 
firming that 

"  'T  is  possible  to  climb, 
To  kindle,  or  to  slake. 

Although  in  Skelton's  rhyme." 

Cumberland  in  his  Memoirs  tells  us 
that  when,  in  the  midst  of  Admiral 
Rodney's  great  sea-fight,  Sir  Charles 
Douglas  said  to  hiin,  "  Behold,  Sir 
George,  the  Greeks  and  Trojans  con- 
tending for  the  body  of  Patroclus  !  " 
the  Admiral  answered,  peevishly, 
"  Damn  the  Greeks  and  damn  the 
Trojans  !  I  have  other  things  to  think 
of."  After  the  battle  was  won,  Rodney 
thus  to  Sir  Charles,  "  Now,  my  dear 
friend,  I  am  at  the  service  of  your 
Greeks  and  Trojans,  and  the  whole  of 
Homer's  Iliad,  or  as  much  of  it  as  you 
please  !  "  I  had  some  such  feeling  of 
the  impertinence  of  our  pseudo-classi- 
cality  when  I  chose  our  homely  dialect 
to  work  in  Should  we  be  nothing, 
because  somebody  had  contrived  to  be 
something  (and  that  perhaps  in  a  pro- 
vincial dialect)  ages  ago  ?  and  to  be 
nothing  by  our  very  attempt  to  be  that 
something.which  they  had  already  been, 
and  which  therefore  nobody  could  be 
again  without  being  a  bore  ?  Is  there  no 
way  left,  then,  I  thought,  of  being  nat- 
ural, of  being  naif,  which  means  noth- 
ing more  than  native,  of  belonging  tothe 
age  and  country  in  which  you  are  born  ? 
The  Yankee,  at  least,  is  a  new  phe- 
nomenon ;  let  us  try  to  be  that.  It  is 
perhaps  a  pis  alter,  but  is  not  No 
Thoroughfare  written  up  everywhere 
else  ?  In  the  literary  world,  things 
seemed  to  me  very  much  as  they  were 
in  the  latter  half  of  the  last  century. 
Pope,  skimming  the  cream  of  good 
sense  and  expression  wherever  he  could 
find  it,  had  made,  not  exactly  poetry, 
but  an  honest,  salable  butter  of 
worldly  wisdom  which  pleasantly  lubri- 
cated some  of  the  drier  morsels  of  life's 
daily  bread,  and  seeing  this,  scores  of 
harmlessly  insane  people  went  on  for 
the  next  fifty  years  coaxing  his  butter- 
milk with  the  regular  up  and  down  of 


the  pentameter  churn  And  it)  our  day 
do  we  not  scent  everywhere,  and  even 
carry  away  in  our  clothes  against  our 
will,  that  faint  perfume  of  musk  which 
Mr.  Tennyson  has  left  behind  him,  or 
worse,  of  Heine's  pachouli  ?  And  might 
it  not  be  possible  to  escape  them  by 
turning  into  one  of  our  narrow  New 
England  lanes,  shut  in  thougli  it  were 
by  bleak  stone  walls  on  either  hand, 
and  where  no  better  flowers  were  to 
be  gathered  than  golden-rod  and  hard- 
hack  ? 

Beside  the  advantage  of  getting  out 
of  the  beaten  track,  our  dialect  offered 
others  hardly  inierior.  As  1  was  about 
to  make  an  endeavor  to  state  them,  I 
remembered  something  which  the  clear- 
sighted Goethe  had  said  about  Hebel's 
Allemannische  Gedichte,  which,  mak- 
ing proper  deduction  for  special  refer- 
ence to  the  book  under  review,  ex- 
presses what  I  would  have  said  far 
better  than  I  could  hope  to  do  :  "  Allen 
diesen  innern  guten  Eigenschaften 
kommt  die  behagliche  naive  Sprache 
sehr  zu  statten.  Man  findet  mehrere 
sinnlich  bedeutende  und  wohlklingende 
Worte  ....  von  einem,  zwei  Buch- 
staben,  Abbreviationen,  Contractionen, 
viele  kurze,  leichte  Sylben,  neue  Rei- 
me,  welches,  mehr  als  man  glaubt,  ein 
Vortheil  fur  den  Dichter  ist.  Diese 
Elemente  werden  durch  gliickliche 
Constructionen  und  lebhafte  Formen 
zu  einem  Styl  zusammengedrangt  der 
zu  diesem  Zwecke  vor  unserer  Biicher- 
sprache  grosse  Vorzilge  hat."  Of 
course  I  do  not  mean  to  imply  that  / 
have  come  near  achieving  any  such 
success  as  the  great  critic  here  indicates, 
but  I  think  the  success  is  there,  and 
to  be  plucked  by  some  more  fortunate 
hand. 

Nevertheless,  I  was  encouraged  by 
the  approval  of  manv  whose  opinions  I 
valued.  With  a  feeling  too  tender  and 
grateful  to  be  mixed  with  any  vanity,  I 
mention  as  one  of  these  the  late  A.  H. 
Clough.  who,  more  than  any  one  of 
those  I  have  known  (no  longer  living), 
except  Hawthorne,  impressed  me  with 
the  constant  presence  of  that  indefin- 
able  thing  we  call  genius.     He  ofteB 


INTRODUCTION. 


249 


suggested  that  I  should  try  my  hand  at 
some  Yankee  Pastorals,  which  would 
admit  of  more  sentiment  and  a  higher 
tone  without  foregoing  the  advantage 
offered  by  the  dialect.  I  have  never 
completed  anything  of  the  kind,  but, 
in  this  Second  Series,  both  my  remem- 
brance of  his  counsel  and  the  deeper 
feeling  called  up  by  the  great  interests 
at  stake,  led  me  to  venture  some  pas- 
sages nearer  to  what  is  called  poetical 
than  could  have  been  admitted  without 
incongruity  into  the  former  series.  The 
time  seemed  calling  to  me,  with  the  old 
poet,  — 

"  Leave,  then,  your  wonted  prattle. 
The  oaten  reed  forbear  ; 
For  I  hear  a  sound  of  battle, 
And  trumpets  rend  the  air  I  " 

The  only  attempt  I  had  ever  made  at 
anything  like  a  pastoral  (if  that  may  be 
called  an  attempt  which  was  the  result 
almost  of  pure  accident)  was  in  "  The 
Courtin'."  While  the  introduction  to 
the  First  Series  was  going  through  the 
press,  I  received  word  from  the  printer 
that  there  was  a  blank  page  left  which 
must  be  filled.  I  sat  down  at  once  and 
improvised  another  fictitious  "notice 
of  the  press,"  in  which,  because  verse 
would  fill  up  space  more  cheaply  than 
prose,  I  inserted  an  extract  from  a  sup- 
posed ballad  of  Mr.  Biglow.  I  kept 
no  copy  of  it,  and  the  printer,  as  di- 
rected, cut  it  off  when  the  gap  was 
filled.  Presently  I  began  to  receive 
letters  asking  for  the  rest  of  it,  some- 
times for  the  balance  of  it.  I  had  none, 
but  to  answer  such  demands,  I  patched 
a  conclusion  upon  it  in  a  later  edition. 
Those  who  had  only  the  first  continued 
to  importune  me.  Afterward,  being 
asked  to  write  it  out  as  an  autograph 
for  the  Baltimore  Sanitary  flommission 
Fair,  1  added  other  verses,  into  some 
of  which  I  infused  a  little  more  senti- 
ment in  a  homely  way,  and  after  a  fash- 
ion completed  it  by  sketching  in  the 
characters  and  making  a  connected 
story.  Most  likely  I  have  spoiled  it, 
but  I  shall  put  it  at  the  end  of  this  In- 
troduction, to  answer  once  for  all  those 
kindly  importunings. 

As  I  have  seen  extracts  from  what 


purported  to  be  writings  of  Mr.  Biglow, 
which  were  not  genuine,  I  may  prop* 
eny  take  this  opportunity  to  say,  thai 
the  two  volumes  now  published  contain 
every  line  1  ever  printed  under  that 
pseudonyme,  and  that  I  have  never, 
so  far  as  I  can  remember,  written  an 
anonymous  article  (elsewhere  than  in 
the  North  American  Review,  and  the 
A  tlantic  Monthly,  during  my  editorship 
of  it)  except  a  review  of  Mrs.  Stowe's 
"Minister's  Wooing,"  and,  some 
twenty  years  ago,  a  sketch  of  the  anti- 
slavery  movement  in  America  for  an 
English  journal. 

A  word  more  on  pronunciation.  I 
have  endeavored  to  express  this  so  far 
as  I  could  by  the  types,  taking  such 
pains  as,  I  fear,  may  sometimes  make 
the  reading  harder  than  need  be.  At 
the  same  time,  by  studying  uniformity 
I  have  sometimes  been  obliged  to  sac- 
rifice minute  exactness.  The  empha- 
sis often  modifies  the  habitual  sound. 
For  example,  for  is  commonly  fer  (a 
shorter  sound  than  fur  for  far),  but 
when  emphatic  it  always  becomes  for, 
as  "v/ut  for?"  So  too  is  pionounced 
like  to  (as  it  was  anciently  spelt),  and 
to  like  ta  (the  sound  as  in  the  tou  of 
touch),  but  too,  when  emphatic,  charges 
into  tue,  and  to,  sometimes,  in  similar 
cases,  into  toe,  as,  "  I  did  n'  hardly 
know  wut  toe  du  !  "  Where  vowels 
come  together,  or  one  precedes  an- 
other following  an  aspirate,  the  two 
melt  together,  as  was  common  with  the 
older  poets  who  formed  their  versifica- 
tion on  French  or  Italian  models. 
Drayton  is  thoroughly  Yankee  when 
he  says  "  I  'xpect,"  and  Pope  when  he 
says  "f  inspire."  With  becomes 
sometimes  'ith,  'Hth,  or  'th.,  or  even 
disappears  wholly  where  it  comes  be- 
fore the,  as,  "  I  went  along  th'  Square  " 
(along  with  the  Squire),  the  are  sound 
being  an  archaism  which  I  have  no- 
ticed also  in  choir,  like  the  old  Scottish 
guhair.  (Herrick  has,  "Of  flowers 
ne'er  sucked  by  th'  theeving  bee.") 
Without  becomes  athout  and  'thout. 
Afterwards  always  retains  its  locative 
j,  and  is  pronounced  always  ahter- 
,,   wurds',  with  a  strong  accent  on  the  last 


25° 


THE   BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


syllable.  This  oddity  has  some  sup- 
port in  the  erratic  towards'  instead  of 
to'wards,  which  we  rind  in  the  poets 
and  sometimes  hear.  The  sound  given 
to  the  first  syllable  of  to' wards,  1  may 
remark,  sustains  the  Yankee  lengthen- 
ing of  the  o  in  to.  At  the  beginning  of 
a  sentence,  ahterwurds  has  the  accent 
on  the  first  syllable  ;  at  the  end  of  one, 
on  the  last;  as  ah'terwurds  he  toP 
me,"  "he  tol'  me  ahterwurds1 ."  The 
Yankee  never  makes  a  mistake  in  his 
aspirates.  U  changes  in  many  words 
to  e,  always  in  such,  brush,  tush,  hush, 
rush,  blush,  seldom  in  muck,  oftener  in 
trust  and  crust,  never  in  mush,  gust, 
bust,  tumble,  or  (?]  flush,  in  the  latter 
case  probably  to  avoid  confusion  with 
flesh.  I  have  heard  flush  with  the  I 
sound,  however.  For  the  same  reason, 
I  suspect,  never  in  gush  (at  least,  I 
never  heard  it),  because  we  have  al- 
ready one  gesh  for  gash  A  and /short 
frequently  become  e  short.  U  always 
becomes  o  in  the  prefix  un  (except 
unto),  and  o  in  return  changes  to  u 
short  in  uv  for  of,  and  in  some  words 
beginning  with  om.  T  and  d,  b  and  p, 
v  and  w,  remain  intact.  So  much  oc- 
curs to  me  in  addition  to  what  I  said  on 
this  head  in  the  preface  to  the  former 
volume. 

Of  course  in  what  I  have  said  I  wish 
to  be  understood  as  keeping  in  mind 
the  difference  between  provincialisms 
properly  so  called  and  slang.  Slang 
is  always  vulgar,  because  it  is  not  a  nat- 
ural but  an  affected  way  of  talking,  and 
all  mere  tricks  of  speech  or  writing  are 
offensive.  I  do  not  think  that  Mr.  Big- 
low  can  be  fairly  charged  with  vulear- 
ity,  and  I  should  have  entirely  failed  in 
my  design,  if  I  have  not  made  it  appear 
that  high  and  even  refined  sentiment 
may  coexist  with  the  shrewder  and 
more  comic  elements  of  the  Yankee 
character.  I  believe  that  what  is  essen- 
tially vulgar  and  mean-spirited  in  poli- 
tics seldom  has  its  source  in  the  body 
c  '  the  people,  but  much  rather  among 
tnose  who  are  made  timid  by  their 
wealth  or  selfish  by  their  love  of  power. 
A  democracy  can  afford  much  better 
than  an   aristocracy   to   follow  out   its 


convictions,  and  is  perhaps  bettet  juj- 
ified  to  build  those  convictions  on  plairj 
principles  of  right  and  wrong,  rather 
than  on  the  shifting  sands  of  expedi- 
ency. I  had  always  thought  "  Sam 
Slick  "  a  libel  on  the  Yankee  character, 
and  a  complete  falsification  of  Yankee 
modes  of  speech,  though,  for  aught  I 
know,  it  may  be  true  in  both  respects 
so  far  as  the  British  Provinces  are  con- 
cerned. To  me  the  dialect  was  native, 
was  spoken  all  about  me  when  a  boy,  at 
a  time  when  an  Irish  day-laborer  was 
as  rare  as  an  American  one  now.  Since 
then  I  have  made  a  study  of  it  so  far  as 
opportunity  allowed.  But  when  I  write 
in  it,  it  is  as  in  a  mother  tongue,  and  I 
am  carried  back  far  beyond  any  studies 
of  it  to  long-ago  noonings  in  my  fa- 
ther's hay-fields,  and  to  the  talk  of  Sam 
and  Job  over  their  jug  of  blackstrap 
under  the  shadow  of  the  ash-tree  which 
still  dapples  the  grass  whence  they  have 
been  gone  so  long. 

But  life  is  short,  and  prefaces  should 
be.  And  so,  my  good  friends,  to  whom 
this  introductory  epistle  is  addressed, 
farewell.  Though  some  of  you  have 
remonstrated  with  me,  I  shall  never 
write  any  more  "  Biglow  Papers,"  how- 
ever great  the  temptation,  —  great  espe- 
cially at  the  present  time,  —  unless  it 
be  to  complete  the  original  plan  of  this 
Series  by  bringing  out  Mr.  Sawin  as  an 
"original  Union  man."  The  very  fa- 
vor with  which  they  have  been  received 
is  a  hindrance  to  me,  by  forcing  on  me 
a  self-consciousness  from  which  I  was 
entirely  free  when  I  wrote  the  First 
Series.  Moreover,  I  am  no  longer  the 
same  careless  youth,  with  nothing  to  do 
but  live  to  myself,  my  books,  and  my 
friends,  that  I  was  then.  I  always 
hated  politics,  in  the  ordinary  sense  of 
the  word,  and  I  am  not  likely  to  grow 
fonder  of  them,  now  that  I  have  learned 
how  rare  it  is  to  find  a  man  who  can 
keep  principle  clear  from  party  and  per- 
sonal prejudice,  or  can  conceive  the 
possibility  of  another's  doing  so.  I 
feel  as  if  I  could  in  some  sort  claim  to 
be  an  emeritus,  and  I  am  sure  that  po- 
litical satire  will  have  full  justice  done 
it  by  that  genuine  and  delightful   hu- 


INTRODUCTION. 


25 » 


morist,  the  Rev.  Petroleum  V.  Nasby. 
I  regret  that  I  killed  off  Mr.  Wilbur  so 
soon,  for  he  would  have  enabled  me  to 
bring  into  this  preface  a  number  of 
learned  quotations,  which  must  now  go 
a-begging,  and  also  enabled  me  to  dis- 
personalize  myself  into  a  vicarious  ego- 
tism. He  would  have  helped  me  also 
in  clearing  myself  from  a  charge  which 
I  shall  briefly  touch  on,  because  my 
friend  Mr.  Hughes  has  found  it  need- 
ful to  defend  me  in  his  preface  to  one 
of  the  English  editions  of  the  "  Biglow 
Papers."  I  thank  Mr.  Hughes  heatt- 
ily  for  his  friendly  care  of  my  good 
name,  and  were  his  Preface  accessible 
Jo  my  readers  here  (as  I  am  glad  it  is 
not,  for  its  partiality  makes  me  blush), 
I  should  leave  the  matter  where  he  left 
it.  The  charge  is  of  profanity,  brought 
in  by  persons  who  proclaimed  African 
slavery  of  Divine  institution,  and  is 
based'(so  far  as  I  have  heard)  on  two 
passages  in  the  First  Series,  — ■ 


and, 


"An"  you  've  gut  to  git  up  airly, 
Ef  you  want  to  take  in  God," 

"  God  '11  send  the  bill  to  you," 


and  on  some  Scriptural  illustration?  $>y 
Mr.  Sawin. 

Now,  in  the  first  place,  I  was  writ- 
ing under  an  assumed  character  and 
must  talk  as  the  person  would  whose 
mouthpiece  I  made  myself.  Will  any 
one  familiar  with  the  New  England 
countryman  venture  to  tell  me  that  ^ 
he  does  not  speak  of  sacred  things  fa- 
miliarly? That  Biblical  allusions  (al- 
lusions, that  is,  to  the  single  book  with 
whose  language,  from  his  church-going 
habits,  he  is  intimate)  are  not  frequent 
on  his  lips?  If  so,  he  cannot  have 
pursued  his  studies  of  the  character  on 
so  many  long-ago  muster-fields  and  at 
so  many  cattle-shows  as  I.  But  I  scorn 
any  such  line  of  defence,  and  will  con- 
fess at  once  that  one  of  the  things  I  am 
proud  of  in  my  countrymen  is  (I  am 
not  speaking  now  of  such  persons  as  I 
have  assumed  Mr.  Sawin  to  be)  that 
they  do  not  put  their  Maker  away  far 
from  them,  or  interpret  the  fear  of  God 
into  being  afraid  of  Him.    The  Tal- 


mudists  had  conceived  a  deep  truth 
when  they  said,  that  "  all  things  were 
in  the  power  of  God,  save  the  fear  of 
God  "  ;  and  when  people  stand  in  great 
dread  of  an  invisible  power,  I  suspect 
they  mistake  quite  another  personage 
for  the  Deity.  I  might  justify  myself 
for  the  passages  criticised  by  many 
parallel  ones  from  Scripture,  but  I  need 
not.  The  Reverend  Homer  Wilbur's 
note-books  supply  me  with  three  appo- 
site quotations.  The  first  is  from  a 
Father  of  the  Roman  Church,  the  sec- 
ond from  a  Father  of  the  Anglican,  and 
the  third  from  a  Father  of  ModernEng- 
lish  poetry.  The  Puritan  divines  would 
furnish  me  with  many  more  such.  St. 
Bernard  says,  Sapiens  nummularius 
est  Deus :  numtnum  fictum  non  re- 
cipiet  ;  "  A  cunning  money-changer  is 
God:  he  will  take  in  no  base  coin." 
Latimer  says,  "  You  shall  perceive  that 
God,  by  this  example,  shaketh  us  by 
the  noses  and  taketh  us  by  the  ears." 
Familiar  enough,  both  of  them,  one 
would  say  !  But  I  should  think  Mi. 
Biglow  had  verily  stolen  the  last  of  the 
two  maligned  passages  from  Dryden's 
"  Don  Sebastian,"  where  I  find 

"  And  beg  of  Heaven  to  charge  the  bill  on 
me!  " 

And  there  I  leave  the  matter,  being 
willing  to  believe  that  the  Saint,  the 
Martyr,  and  even  the  Poet,  were  Zl 
careful  of  God's  honor  as  my  critics  are 
ever  likely  to  be. 

J.  R.  L. 


THE  COURTIN'. 

GoD  makes  sech  nights,  all  white  an' 
still 

Fur'z  you  can  look  or  listen, 
Moonshine  an'  snow  on  field  an'  hill, 

All  silence  an'  all  glisten. 

Zekle  crep'  up  quite  unbeknown 
An'  peeked  in  thru'  the  winder, 

An'  there  sot  Huldy  all  alone, 
'Ith  no  one  nigh  to  hender. 

A  fireplace  filled  the  room  's  one  side 
With  half  a  cord  o'  wood  in  — 


252 


THE   B I  GLOW  PAPERS. 


There  warn't  no  stoves  (tell  comfort 
died) 
To  bake  ye  to  a  puddin'. 

The  wa'nut  logs  shot  sparkles  out 
Towards  the  pootiest,  bless  her, 

An'  leetle  flames  danced  all  about 
The  chiny  on  the  dresser. 

Agin  the  chimbley  crook-necks  hung, 

An'  in  amongst  'em  rusted 
The   ole    queen's-arm   thet    gran'ther 
Young 

Fetched  back  from  Concord  busted. 

The  very  room,  coz  she  was  in, 
Seemed  warm  from  floor  to  ceilin', 

An'  she  looked  full  ez  rosy  agin 
Ez  the  apples  she  was  peelin'. 

'T  was  kin'  o'  kingdom-come  to  look 

On  sech  a  blessed  cretur, 
A  dogrose  blushin'  to  a  brook 

Ain't  modester  nor  sweeter. 

He  was  six  foot  o'  man,  A  i, 
Clean  grit  an'  human  natur'; 

None  could  n't  quicker  pitch  a  ton 
Nor  dror  a  furrer  straighter. 

He  M  sparked  it  with  full  twenty  gals, 
Hed  squired  'em,  danced  'em,  druv 
'em, 

Fust  this  one,  an'  then  thet,  by  spells  — 
All  is,  he  could  n't  love  'em. 

But  long  o'  her  his  veins  'ould  run 
All  crinkly  like  curled  maple, 

The  side  she  breshed  felt  full  o'  sun 
Ez  a  south  slope  in  Ap'il. 

She  thought  no  v'ice  hed  sech  a  swing 

Ez  hisn  in  the  choir  ; 
My  !  when  he  made  Ole  Hunderd  ring, 

She  knowed  the  Lord  was  nigher. 

An'  she  'd  blush  scarlit,  right  in  prayer, 
When  her  new  meetin'-bunnet 

Felt  somehow  thru'  its  crown  a  pair 
O'  blue  eyes  sot  upon  it. 

Thet  night,  I  tell  ye,  she  looked  some  ! 

She  seemed  to  've  gut  a  new  soul, 
For  she  felt  sartin-sure  he  'd  come, 

Down  to  her  very  shoe-sole. 


She  heered  a  foot,  an'  knowed  it  tu, 
A-raspin'  on  the  scraper,  — 

All  ways  to  once  her  feelins  flew 
Like  sparks  in  burnt-  up  paper. 

He  kin'  o'  l'itered  on  the  mat, 

Some  doubtfle  o'  the  sekle, 
His  heart  kep'  goin'  pity-pat, 

But  hern  went  pity  Zekle. 

An'  yit  she  gin  her  cheer  a  jerk 
Ez  though  she  wished  him  furder, 

An'  on  her  apples  kep'  to  work, 
Parin'  away  like  murder. 

"  You  want  to  see  my  Pa,  I  s'pose  ?" 
"  Wal  ....  no  ....   I    come  da- 
signin'  "  — 
"To  see  my  Ma?      She  's  sprinklin' 
clo'es 
Agin  to-morrer's  i'nin'." 

To  say  why  gals  acts  so  or  so, 
Or  don't,  'ould  be  presumin'  ; 

Mebby  to  mean  yes  an'  say  no 
Comes  nateral  to  women. 

He  stood  a  spell  on  one  foot  fust, 
Then  stood  a  spell  on  t'other, 

An'  on  which  one  he  felt  the  wust 
He  could  n't  ha'  told  ye  nuther. 

Says  he,  "  I  'd  better  call  agin  "  ; 

Says  she,  "  Think  likely,  Mister  "  .• 
Thet  last  word  pricked  him  like  a  pin, 

An'  ....  Wal,  he  up  an'  kist  her. 

When  Ma  bimeby  upon  'em  slips, 

Huldy  sot  pale  ez  ashes, 
All  kin'  o'  smily  roun'  the  lips 

An'  teary  roun'  the  lashes. 

For  she  was  jes'  the  quiet  kind 

Whose  naturs  never  vary, 
Like  streams  that  keep  a  summer  mind 

Snowhid  in  Jenooary. 

The  blood   clost  roun'  her  heart  felt 
glued 

Too  tight  for  all  expressin', 
Tell  mother  see  how  metters  stood. 

And  gin 'em  both  her  blessin'. 

Then  her  red  come  back  like  the  tide 
Down  to  the  Bay  o'  Fundy, 

An'  all  I  know  is  they  was  cried 
In  meetin'  come  nex'  Sunday. 


THE    BIGLOW    PAPERS 


No.   I. 

MRDOFREDUM  SAWIN,  ESQ., 
TO  MR.   HOSEA  BIGLOW. 

LETTER  FROM  THE  REVEREND  HOMER 
WILBUR,  M.  A.,  ENCLOSING  THE  EPIS- 
TLE  AFORESAID. 

JAALAM,  15th  Nov.,   1861. 

#  #  #  *  * 

It  is  not  from  any  idle  wish  to  ob- 
r/ude  my  humble  person  with  undue 
prominence  upon  the  publick  view  that 
I  resume  my  pen  upon  the  present  oc- 
casion. Juniores  ad  labores.  But 
having  been  a  main  instrument  in  res- 
cuing the  talent  of  my  young  parish- 
ioner from  being  buried  in  the  ground, 
by  giving  it  such  warrant  with  the 
world  as  could  be  derived  from  a  name 
already  widely  known  by  several  print- 
ed discourses  (all  of  which  I  may  be 
permitted  without  immodesty  to  state 
have  been  deemed  worthy  of  preserva- 
tion in  the  Library  of  Harvard  College 
by  my  esteemed  friend  Mr.  Sibley), 
it  seemed  becoming  that  I  should  not 
only  testify  to  the  genuineness  of  the 
following  production,  but  call  attention 
to  it,  the  more  as  Mr.  Biglow  had  so 
long  been  silent  as  to  be  in  danger  of 
absolute  oblivion.  I  insinuate  no 
claim  to  any  share  in  the  authorship 
(vix  ea  nostra  voco)  of  the  works  al- 
ready published  by  Mr.  Biglow,  but 
merely  take  to  myself  the  credit  of 
having  fulfilled  toward  them  the  office 
of  taster  (experto  crede^,  who,  having 
first  tried,  could  afterward  bear  witness 
{credenzen  it  was  aptly  named  by  the 
Qermans),   an   office  always    arduous. 


and  sometimes  even  dangerous,  as  in 
the  case  of  those  devoted  persons  who 
venture  their  lives  in  the  deglutition  of 
patent  medicines  {dolus  latet  in  gen- 
eralibus,  there  is  deceit  in  the  most  of 
them)  and  thereafter  are  wonderfully 
preserved  long  enough  to  append  their 
signatures  to  testimonials  in  the  diurnal 
and  hebdomadal  prints.  I  say  not  this 
as  covertly  glancing  at  the  authors  of 
certain  manuscripts  which  have  been 
submitted  to  my  literary  judgment 
(though  an  epick  in  twenty-four  books 
on  the  "  Taking  of  Jericho  "  might, 
save  for  the  prudent  forethought  of 
Mrs.  Wilbur  in  secreting  the  same 
just  as  I  had  arrived  beneath  the  walls 
and  was  beginning  a  catalogue  of  the 
various  horns  and  their  blowers,  too 
ambitiously  emulous  in  longanimity 
of  Homer's  list  of  ships,  might,  I  say, 
have  rendered  frustrate  any  hope  I 
could  entertain  vacare  Musis  for  the 
small  remainder  of  my  days),  but  only 
the  further  to  secure  myself  against 
any  imputation  of  unseemly  forthput- 
ting.  I  will  barely  subjoin,  in  this 
connexion,  that,  whereas  Job  was  left 
to  desire,  in  the  soreness  of  his  heart, 
that  his  adversary  had  written  a  book, 
as  perchance  misanthropically  wishing 
to  indite  a  review  thereof,  yet  was  not 
Satan  allowed  so  far  to  tempt  him  as 
to  send  Bildad,  Eliphaz,  and  Zophar 
each  with  an  unprinted  work  in  his 
wallet  to  be  submitted  to  his  censure. 
But  of  this  enough.  Were  I  in  need 
of  other  excuse,  I  might  add  that  I 
write  by  the  express  desire  of  Mr. 
Biglow  himself,  whose  entire  winter 
leisure  is  occupied,  as  he  assures  me, 
in  answering  demands  for  autographs. 


254 


THE  BIGLOVV  PAPERS. 


a  labor  exacting  enough  in  itself,  and 
egregiously  so  to  him,  who,  being  no 
ready  penman,  cannot  sign  so  much  as 
his  name  without  strange  contortions 
of  the  face  (his  nose,  even,  being  essen- 
tial to  complete  success)  and  painfully 
suppressed  Saint-Vitus-dance  of  every 
muscle  in  his  body.  This,  with  his 
having  been  put  in  the  Commission  of 
the  Peace  by  our  excellent  Governor 
(O,  si  sic  omnes .')  immediately  on  his 
accession  to  office,  keeps  him  continu- 
ally employed.  Haud  inexpertus 
ioguor,  having  for  many  years  written 
myself  J.  P.,  and  being  not  seldom  ap- 
plied to  for  specimens  of  my  chirogia- 
phy,  a  request  to  which  1  have  some- 
times over  weakly  assented,  believing 
as  1  do  that  nothing  written  of  set  pur- 
pose can  properly  be  called  an  auto- 
graph, but  only  those  unpremeditated 
sallies  and  lively  runnings  which  betray 
the  fireside  Man  instead  of  the  hunted 
Notoriety  doubling  on  his  pursuers. 
But  it  is  time  that  I  should  bethink  me 
of  St.  Austin's  prayer,  libera  me  a 
tneipso,  if  I  would  arrive  at  the  matter 
in  hand. 

Moreover,  I  had  yet  another  reason 
for  taking  up  the  pen  myself.  I  am  in- 
formed that  the  Atlantic  Monthly  is 
mainly  indebted  for  its  success  to  the 
contributions  and  editorial  supervision 
of  Dr.  Holmes,  whose  excellent  "An- 
nals of  America  "  occupy  an  honored 
place  upon  my  shelves.  The  journal 
itself  I  have  never  seen  ;  but  if  this  be 
so,  it  might  seem  that  the  recommen- 
dation of  a  brother-clergyman  (though 
par  mag-is  quam  similis)  should  carry 
a  greater  weight.  I  suppose  that  you 
have  a  department  for  historical  lucu- 
brations, and  should  be  glad,  if  deem- 
ed desirable,  to  forward  for  publication 
my  "  Collections  for  the  Antiquities  of 
Jaalam,"  and  my  (now  happily  com- 
plete) pedigree  of  the  Wilbur  family 
from  its  fons  et  origo,  the  Wild  Boar  of 
Ardennes.  Withdrawn  from  the  active 
duties  of  my  profession  by  the  settle- 
ment of  a  colleague-pastor,  the  Rever- 
end Jeduthun  Hitchcock,  formerly  of 
Brutus  Four-Corners,  I  might  find 
time  for  further  contributions  to  gen- 


eral literature  on  similar  topicks.  1 
have  made  large  advances  towards  a 
completer  genealogy  of  Mrs.  Wilbur's 
lamily,  the  Pilcoxes,  not,  if  I  know 
myself,  from  any  idle  vanity,  but  with 
the  sole  desire  of  rendering  myself  use- 
ful in  my  day  and  generation.  Nulla 
dies  sine  lined.  I  inclose  a  meteoro- 
logical register,  a  list  of  the  births, 
deaths,  and  marriages,  and  a  few  me- 
morabilia ot  longevity  in  Jaalam  East 
Parish  for  the  last  naif-century. 
Though  spared  to  the  unusual  period 
ot  more  than  eighty  years,  I  find  no 
diminution  of  my  (acuities  or  abate- 
ment of  my  natural  vigor,  except  a 
scarcely  sensible  decay  ot  memory  and 
a  necessity  of  recurring  to  younger 
eyesight  or  spectacles  for  the  finer 
print  in  Cruden.  It  would  gratify  me 
to  make  some  further  provision  for  de- 
clining years  from  the  emoluments  of 
my  literary  labors.  I  had  intended  to 
effect  an  insurance  on  my  life,  but  was 
deterred  therefrom  by  a  circular  from 
one  of  the  offices,  in  which  the  sudden 
death  of  so  large  a  proportion  of  the 
insured  was  set  forth  as  an  inducement, 
that  it  seemed  to  me  little  less  than  a 
tempting  of  Providence.  Neqtie  in 
sitmma  inopia  lavis  esse  senectus potest, 
ne  sapien/i  quidem. 

Thus  far  concerning  Mr.  Biglow; 
and  so  much  seemed  needful  (brevis 
esse  labord)  by  way  of  preliminary,  after 
a  silence  of  fourteen  years.  He  greatly 
fears  lest  he  may  in  this  essay  have 
fallen  below  himself,  well  knowing  that, 
if  exercise  be  dangerous  on  a  full  stom. 
ach,  no  less  so  is  writing  x>n  a  full  repui 
tation.  Beset  as  he  has  been  on  all 
sides,  he  could  not  refrain,  and  wouli} 
only  imprecate  patience  till  he  shall 
again  have  "got  the  hang"  (as  he  callt 
it)  of  an  accomplishment  long  disused 
The  letter  of  Mr.  Sawin  was  received 
some  time  in  last  June,  and  others  have 
followed  which  will  in  due  season  ba 
submitted  to  the  publick.  How  large- 
ly his  statements  are  to  be  depended 
on,  I  more  than  merely  dubitate.  He 
was  always  distinguished  for  a  tenden- 
cy to  exaggeration , —  it  might  almost  be 
qualified  by  a  stronger  term.     Fortitet 


THE  B I  GLOW  PAPERS. 


255 


>tentire,  aliquid  hceret,  seemed  to  be 
his  favourite  rule  of  rhetorick.  That  he 
«s  actually  where  he  says  he  is  the  post- 
mark would  seem  to  confirm  ;  that  he 
was  received  with  the  pubiick  demon- 
strations he  describes  would  appear 
consonant  with  what  we  know  ot  the 
habits  of  those  regions  ;  but  further 
than  this  I  venture  not  to  decide.  I 
have  sometimes  suspected  a  vein  of 
humour  in  him  which  leads  him  to  speak 
by  contraries  ;  but  since,  in  the  unre- 
strained intercourse  ot  private  life,  I 
have  never  observed  in  him  any  strik- 
ing powers  of  invention,  1  am  the  more 
willing  to  put  a  certain  qualified  taith 
in  the  iscidents  and  the  details  of  liie 
and  manners  which  give  to  his  narra- 
tives some  portion  of  the  interest  and 
entertainment  which  characterizes  a 
Century  Sermon. 

It  may  be  expected  of  me  that  I 
should  say  something  to  justify  myself 
with  the  world  for  a  seeming  inconsist- 
ency with  my  well-known  principles  in 
allowing  my  youngest  son  to  raise  a 
company  for  the  war,  a  fact  known  to 
all  through  the  medium  of  the  pubiick 
prints.  I  did  reason  with  the  young 
man,  but  exfellas  naturam  /urea, 
tamenusquf  recurrit.  Having  myself 
been  a  chaplain  in  1812,  I  could  the 
less  wonder  that  a  man  of  war  had 
sprung  from  my  loins.  It  was,  indeed, 
grievous  to  send  my  Benjamin,  the 
child  of  my  old  age  ;  but  after  the  dis- 
comfiture of  Manassas,  I  with  my  own 
hands  did  buckle  on  his  armour,  trust- 
ing in  the  great  Comforter  and  Com- 
mander for  strength  according  to  my 
need.  For  truly  the  memory  of  a  brave 
son  dead  in  his  shroud  were  a  greater 
staff  of  my  declining  years  than  a  living 
coward  (if  those  may  be  said  to  have 
lived  who  carry  all  of  themselves  into 
the  grave  with  them),  though  his  days 
might  be  long  in  the  land,  and  he 
should  get  much  goods.  It  is  not  till 
our  earthen  vessels  are  broken  that  wf 
find  and  truly  possess  the  treasure  that 
was  laid  up  in  them.  Migraviin  ani- 
mam  meant,  I  have  sought  refuge  in  my 
own  soul ;  nor  would  I  be  shamed  by 
ihe  heathen  comedian   with  his  Ne- 


quam  Mud  verbi/tn,  bene  veH,  nisi 
bene  /acit.  During  our  dark  days,  1 
read  constantly  in  the  inspired  book  of 
Job,  which  1  believe  to  contain  more 
lood  to  maintain  the  fibre  of  the  soul 
for  right  living  and  high  thinking  than 
all  pagan  literature  together,  though  I 
would  by  no  means  vilipend  the  study 
of  the  classicks.  There  I  read  that 
Job  said  in  his  despair,  even  as  the 
tool  saith  in  his  heart  there  is  no  God, 
—  "  The  tabernacles  of  robbers  pros- 
per, and  they  that  provoke  God  are  se- 
cure." (Job  xii.  6.)  But  I  sought 
larther  till  1  found  this  Scripture  also, 
which  I  would  have  those  perpend  who 
have  striven  to  turn  our  Israel  aside  to 
the  worship  of  strange  gods  :  —  "  If  I 
did  despise  the  cause  of  my  man-ser- 
vant or  of  my  maid-servant  when  they 
contended  with  me,  what  then  shall  I 
do  when  God  riseth  up?  and  when  he 
visiteth,  what  shall  I  answer  him  ? " 
(Job  xxxi.  13,  14.)  On  this  text  I 
preached  a  discourse  on  the  last  day  of 
Fasting  and  Humiliation  with  general 
acceptance,  though  there  were  not 
wanting  one  or  two  Laodiceans  who 
said  that  I  should  have  waited  till  the 
President  announced  his  policy.  But 
let  us  hope  and  pray,  remembering  this 
of  Saint  Gregory,  Vult  Deus  rogari, 
vult  cogi,  vult  quadam  importunitate 
vinci. 

We  had  our  first  fall  of  snow  on 
Friday  last.  Frosts  have  been  un- 
usually backward  this  fall.  A  singular 
circumstance  occurred  in  this  town  on 
the  20th  October,  in  the  family  of  Dea- 
con Pelatiah  Tinkham.  On  the  pre- 
vious evening,  a  few  moments  before 
family-prayers, 

*  *  #  *  * 

[The  editors  of  the  Atlantic  find  it 
necessary  here  to  cut  short  the  letter 
of  their  valued  correspondent,  which 
seemed  calculated  rather  on  the  rates 
of  longevity  in  Jaalam  than  for  less 
favored  localities.  They  have  every 
encouragement  to  hope  that  he  will 
w*ue  again.] 

W:tl?  rsteem  and  respect. 
You!  obtdk'n.  ser'ant, 
Homkp  W'L^ur-   A    M. 


=56 


THE   BIGLOIV  PAPERS. 


It  's  some  consid'ble  of  a  spell  sence 

I  hain't  writ  no  letters, 
An'   ther'  's  gret    changes    hez   took 

place  in  all  poht'cle  inetters  : 
Some  canderdates  air  dead  an'  gone, 

an'  some  hez  ben  defeated, 
Which   'mounts   to    pooty    much   the 

same  ;  fer  it 's  ben  proved  repeated 
A  betch  o'  bread  thet  hain't  riz  once 

ain't  goin'  to  rise  agin, 
An'  it  's  jest  money  throwed  away  to 

put  the  emptins  in  : 
But  thet 's  wut  folks  wun't  never  larn  ; 

they  dunno  how  to  go, 
Arter  you  want  their  room,  no  more  'n 

a  bullet-headed  beau  ; 
Ther'  's  oilers  chaps  a-hangin'  roun' 

thet  can't  see  peatime  's  past, 
Mis'ble  as  roosters   in   a  rain,    heads 

down  an'  tails  half-mast  : 
It  ain't  disgraceful  bein'  beat,  when  a 

holl  nation  doos  it, 
But   Chance    is   like  an  amberill, —  it 

don't  take  twice  to  lose  it. 


I  spose  you  're  kin'  o'  cur'ous,  now,  to 

know  why  I  hain't  writ. 
Wal,  I  've   ben   where   a  litt'ry  taste 

don't  somehow  seem  to  git 
Th'  encouragement  a  feller  'd  think, 

thet's  used  to  public  schools, 
An'  where  sech  things  ez  paper  V  ink 

air  clean  agin  the  rules  : 
A  kind  o'  vicyvarsy  house,  built  dreffle 

strong  an'  stout, 
So  's  't  honest  people  can't  get  in,  ner 

t'other  sort  git  out, 
An'  with   the    winders    so   contrived, 

you  'd  prob'ly  like  the  view 
Better   alookin'  in  than  out,  though  it 

seems  sing'lar,  tu  ; 
But  then  the  landlord  sets  by  ye,  can't 

bear  ye  out  o'  sight, 
And  locks  ye  up  ez   reg'lar  ez  an  out- 
side door  at  night. 


This  world  is  awfle  contrary  :  the  rope 

may  stretch  your  neck 
Thet   mebby  kep'  another  chap  frum 

washin'  off  a  wreck  ; 
An'   you  may  see  the  taters  grow  in 

one  poor  feller's  patch, 


So   small   no   self-respectin'   hen  thet 

vallied  time  'ould  scratch, 
So  small  the  rot  can't  find  'em  out,  an' 

then  agin,  nex'  door, 
Ez  big  ez   wut   hogs   dream   on  when 

they  're  'most  too  fat  to  snore. 
But  groutin'  ain't  no  kin'  o'  use  ;  an'  ef 

the  fust  throw  fails, 
Why,  up  an'  try  agin,  thet 's  all, —  the 

coppers  ain't  all  tails  ; 
Though  I  hev  seen  'em  when  I  thoup.ht 

they  hed  n't  no  more  head 
Than  'd  sarve  a  nussin'  Brigadier  thet 

gits  some  ink  to  shed. 

When  I  writ  last,  I  'd  ben  turned 
loose  by  thet  blamed  nigger,  Pomp, 

Ferlorner  than  a  musquash,  ef  you  'd 
took  an'  dreened  his  swamp  : 

But  I  ain't  o'  the  meechin'  kind,  thet 
sets  an'  thinks  fer  weeks 

The  bottom  's  out  o'  th'  univarse  coz 
their  own  gillpot  leaks. 

I  hed  to  cross  bayous  an'  criks,  (wal,  it 
did  beat  all  natur',) 

Upon  a  kin'  o'  corderoy,  fust  log,  then 
alligator : 

Luck'ly,  the  critters  warn't  sharp-sot ; 
I  guess  't  wuz  overruled 

They  'd  done  their  mornin's  marketin' 
an'  gut  their  hunger  cooled  ; 

Fer  missionaries  to  the  Cre'eks  an'  run- 
aways are  viewed 

By  them  an'  folks  ez  sent  express  to  be 
their  reg'lar  food : 

Wutever  't  wuz,  they  laid  an'  snoo-ed 
ez  peacefully  ez  sinners, 

Meek  ez  disgestin' deacons  be  at  ordi- 
nation dinners  ; 

Ef  any  on  'em  turned  an'  snapped,  I 
let  'em  kin'  o'  taste 

My  live-oak  leg,  an'  so,  ye  see,  ther' 
•ivarn't  no  gret  o'  waste  ; 

Fer  they  found  out  in  quicker  time  than 
ef  they  'd  ben  to  college 

'T  warn't  heartier  food  than  though  't 
wuz  made  out  o'  the  tree  o'  knowl- 
edge. 

But  /  tell  yoic  my  other  leg  hed  larnedt 
wut  pizon-nettle  meant, 

An'  var'ous  other  userle  things,  afore  I 
reached  a  settlement, 

An'  all  o'  me  thet  wuz  n't  sore  an* 
sendin'  prickles  thru  me 


THE   B 1 GLOW  PAPERS. 


*57 


Wuz  jest  the  leg  I  parted  with  in  lickin' 

Montezumy : 
A  useHe  limb  it  's  ben  to  me,  an'  more 

of  a  support 
Than  wut  the  other  hez  ben,  —  coz  I 

dror  my  pension  for  't. 

Wal,  I  gut  in  at   last  where  folks  wuz 

civerlized  an'  white, 
Ez     I     diskivered   to    my    cost   afore 

't  warn't  hardly  night  ; 
Fer  'z  I  wuz  settin'  in  the  bar  a-takin' 

sunthin'  hot, 
An'  feelin'  like  a  man  agin,  all  over  in 

one  spot, 
A  feller  thet  sot  opposite,  artera  squint 

at  me, 
Lep  up  an'  drawed   his   peacemaker, 

an',  "  Dash  it,  Sir,"  suz  he, 
"  I  'm   doubledashed  ef  you  ain't  him 

thet  stole  my  yaller  chettle, 
(You  're  all  the  stranger  thet 's  around, ) 

so  now  you  've  gut  to  settle  : 
It  ain't  no  use  to  argerfy  ner  try  to  cut 

up  frisky, 
I  know  ye  ez  I  know  the  smell  of  ole 

chain  lightnin'  whiskey  ; 
We  're   lor-abidin'   folks    down  here, 

we  '11  fix  ye  so  's  't  a  bar 
Would  n'  tech  ye  with  a  ten-foot  pole  ; 

(Jedge,  you  jest  warm  the  tar;) 
You  '11  think  you  'd  better  ha'  gut  among 

a  tribe  o'  Mongrel  Tartars, 
'Fore  we  've  done  showin'  how  we  raise 

our  Southun  prize  tar-martyrs  ; 
A   moultin'    fallen    cherubim,    ef   he 

should  see  ye,  'd  snicker, 
Thinkin'    he   warn't   a  suckemstance. 

Come,  genlemun,  le'  's  liquor; 
An',  Gin'ral,  when   you  've  mixed  th« 

drinks  an'  chalked   'em   up,  tote 

roun' 
An'  see  ef  ther'  's  a  feather-bed  (thet 's 

borryable)  in  town. 
We  '11  try  ye  fair,  old  Grafted-Leg,  an' 

ef  the  tar  wun't  stick, 
Th'  ain't  not  a  juror  here  but  wut  '11 

'quit  ye  double-quick." 
To  cut  it  short,  I  wun't  say  sweet,  they 

gi'  me  a  good  dip, 
IThey  ain't  perfessM  Bahptists  here,) 

then  give  the  bed  a  rip,  — 
The  jury  'd  sot,  an'  quicker  'n  a  flash 
they  hetched  me  out,  a  livin' 
17 


Extemp'ry  mammoth  turkey-chick  fer 

a  Fejee  Thanksgivin'. 
Thet  I  felt  some   stuck  up  is  wut  it 's 

nat'ral  to  suppose. 
When   poppylar  enthusiasm  hed   fun- 

nished  me  sech  clo'es  ; 
(Ner  't  ain't  without   edvantiges,  this 

kin'  o'  suit,  ye  see, 
It 's  water-proof,  an'  water's  wut  I  like 

kep'  out  o'  me  ;) 
But  nut  content  with  thet,  they  took  a 

kerridge  from  the  fence 
An'  rid  me  roun'  to  see  the  place,  en- 
tirely free  'f  expense, 
With   forty-'leven  new   kines  o'  sarse 

without  no  charge  acquainted  me, 
Gi'  me  three  cheers,  an'  vowed  thet   I 

wuz  all  their  fahncy  painted  me  ; 
They  treated   me   to   all   their    eggs  ; 

(they  keep  'em  I  should  think, 
Fer  sech  ovations,  pooty  long,  for  they 

wuz  mos'  distinc'  ;) 
They   starred  me  thick  'z  the  Milky- 
Way  with  indiscrim'nit  cherity, 
Fer  wut  we  call  reception  eggs  air  sun- 
thin'  of  a  rerity ; 
Green  ones  is  plentifle  anough,  skurce 

wuth  a  nigger's  getherin', 
But  your  dead-ripe  ones  ranges  high  fer 

treatin'  Nothun  brethenn  ; 
A  spotteder,  ringstreakeder  child  the' 

warn't  in  Uncle  Sam's 
Foil  farm,  —  a  cross  of  striped  pig  an' 

one  o'  Jacob's  lambs  ; 
'Twuz   Dannil   in   the  lions' den,  new 

an'  enlarged  edition, 
An'  everythin' fust-rate  o'  'tskind,  the' 

warn't  no  impersition. 
People  's  impulsiver  down  here  than 

wut  our  folks  to  home  be, 
An'  kin'  o'  go  it   'ith  a  resh  in  raisin' 

Hail  Columby : 
Thet  's  so :  an'  they  swarmed  out  like 

bees,  for  your  real  Southun  men's 
Time  isn't  o'  much  more  account  than 

an  ole  settin'  hen's  ; 
(They  jest   work   semioccashnally,    or 

else  don't  work  at  all, 
An'  so  their  time  an'  'tention  both  air 

at  saci'ty's  call.) 
Talk  about  hospatality  !    wut  Nothun 

town  d'  ye  know 
Would  take  a  totle  stranger  up  an'  treat 

him  gratis  so  ? 


258 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


You  'd better  b'lieve  ther'  's  nothin'  like 
this  spendin'  days  an'  nights 

Along  'ith  a  dependent  race  fer  civer- 
lizin'  whites. 

But  this  wuz  all  prelim'nary ;  it 's  so 

Gran'  Jurors  here 
Fin'  a  true  bill,    a  hendier  way    than 

ourn,  an'  nut  so  dear  ; 
So  arter   this   they   sentenced   me,   to 

make  all  tight  'n'  snug, 
Afore   a  reg'lar   court   o'   law,  to   ten 

years  in  the  Jug. 
I   did  n'   make   no  gret  defence  :   you 

don't  feel  much  like  speakin', 
When,  ef  you  let  your  clamshells  gape, 

a  quart  o'  tar  will  leak  in  : 
I   hev  hearn  tell  o'  winged  words,  but 

pint  o'  fact  it  tethers 
The  spoutin'  gift  to  hev  your  words  tu 

thick  sot  on  with  feathers, 
An'  Choate  ner  Webster  would  n't  ha' 

made  an  A  i  kin'  o'  speech 
Astride  a  Southun  chestnut  horse  shar- 
per 'n  a  baby's  screech. 
Two  year  ago  they  ketched  the  thief, 

'n'  seein'  I  wuz  innercent, 
They  jest  uncorked  an'  le'  me  run,  an' 

in  my  stid  the  sinner  sent 
To  see   how  he  liked  pork   'n'  pone 

flavored  with  wa'nut  saplin', 
An'  nary  social  priv'ledge  but  a  one- 

hoss,  starn-wheel  chaplin. 
When  I  come  out,  the  folks  behaved 

mos'  gen'manlyan'  harnsome  ; 
They   'lowed  it    would  n't  be   more  'n 

right,   ef  I   should  cuss  'n'  darn 

some : 
The  Cunnle  he  apolergized  ;   suz   he, 

"I'll  du  wut  's  right, 
I  '11  give  ye  settisfection  now  by  shootin' 

ye  at  sight, 
An'    give    the     nigger    (when     he    *s 

caught),  to  pay  him  fer  his  trickin' 
In  gittin'   the  wrong  man  took  up,  a 

most  H  fired  lickin',  — 
It  's  jest  the  way  with  all  on  'em,  the 

inconsistent  critters. 
They  're  'most  enough  to  make  a  man 

blaspheme  his  mornin'  bitters  ; 
I  '11  be  your  frien'  thru  thick  an'  thin 

an'  in  all  kines  o'  weathers, 
An'  all  you  '11  hev  to  pay  fer  's  jest  the 

wast*  o'  tar  an'  feathers  : 


A  lady  owned  the  bed,  ye  see,  a  wid- 

der,  tu,  Miss  Shennon  ; 
It  wuz  her  mite  ;  we  would   ha'  tooX 

another,  ef  ther  'd  ben  one  : 
We  don't  make  no  charge  for  the  ride 

an'  all  the  other  fixins. 
Le'  's  liquor  ;  Gin'ral,  you  can  chalk 

our  friend  for  all  the  mixins." 
A  meetin'  then  wuz  called,  where  they 

"  Resolved,  Thet  we  respec' 
B.   S.   Esquire  for  quallerties  o'   hean 

an'  intellec' 
Peculiar  to  Columby's  sile,  an'  not  to 

no  one  else's, 
Thet   makes  European  tyrans  scringe 

in  all  their  gilded  pel'ces, 
An'  doos  gret   honor  to  our  race   an' 

Southun  institootions"  : 
(I   give  ye  jest   the  substance  o'  the 

leadin'  resolootions  :) 
"  Resolved,  Thet  we  revere  in  him  a 

soger  'thout  a  flor, 
A  martyr  to  the  princerples  o'  libbaty 

an' lor : 
Resolved,  Thet  other  nations  all,  ef 

sot  'longside  o'  us, 
For  vartoo,    larnin',   chivverlry,    ain't 

noways  wuth  a  cuss." 
They  gut  up  a  subscription,  tu,  but  no 

gret  come  o'  thet ; 
I  'xpect  in  cairin'  of  it  roun'  they  took 

a  leaky  hat ; 
Though  Southun  genelmun  ain't  slow 

at  puttin'  down  their  name, 
(When  they  can  write,)  fer  in  the  eend 

it  comes  to  jes'  the  same, 
Because,  ye  see,  't  's  the  fashion  here 

to  sign  an'  not  to  think 
A  critter  'd  be  so  sordid  ez  to  ax 'em  for 

the  chink  : 
I    did  n't   call  but  jest  on  one,  an'  he 

drawed  toothpick  on  me, 
An'   reckoned  he  warn't  goin'  to  stan* 

no  sech  doggauned  econ'my  ; 
So  nothin'  more  wuz  realized,  'ceptin' 

the  good-will  shown, 
Than  eft  had  ben  from  fust  to  last  a 

reg'lar  Cotton  Loan. 
It 's   a  good    way,    though,    come   to 

think,  coz  ye  enjy  the  sense 
O'   lendin'   lib'rally  to   the  Lord,    an' 

nary  red  o'  'xpense  : 
Sence  then  I  've  gut  my  name  up  for  a 

gin'rous-hearted  man 


THE  BIGLOIV  PAPERS. 


*59 


By  jes   subscribin'  right  an'  left  oa  this 

high-minded   plan  ; 
1  've  gin  away  my  thousans  so  to  every 

Southun  sort 
0'    missions,    colleges,   an'   sech,    ner 

ain't  no  poorer  for  't. 

I  warn't  so  bad  off,  arter  all ;  I  need  n't 

hardly  mention 
That  Guv'ment  owed  me  quite  a  pile 

for  my  arrears  o'  pension,  — 
I   mean  the  poor,  weak  thing  we  hcd : 

we  run  a  new  one  now, 
Thet  strings  a  feller  with  a  claim  up  ta 

the  nighes'  bough, 
An'  prectises  the  rights  o'  man,   pur- 

tects  down-trodden  debtors, 
Ner    wun't    hev    creditors     about    a- 

scrougin'  o'  their  betters  : 
Jeff  's    gut    the    last   idees    ther'    is, 

poscrip',  fourteenth  edition, 
He  knows  it  takes  some  enterprise  to 

run  an  oppersition  ; 
Ourn  's  the  fust  thru-by-daylight  train, 

with  all  ou'doors  for  deepot  ; 
Yourn  goes  so  slow  you  'd  think  't  wuz 

drawed  by  a  las'  cent'ry  teapot  ;  — 
Wal,  I  gut  all  on  't  paid  in  gold  afore 

our  State  seceded, 
An'   done   wal,    for   Confed'rit    bonds 

warn't  jest  the  cheese  I  needed  : 
Nut  but  wut  they  're  ez  good  ez  gold, 

but  then  it 's  hard  a-breakin'  on'em, 
An'   ignorant  folks    is  oilers   sot    an' 

wun't  git  used  to  takin'  on  'em  ; 
They  're  wuth  ez  much  ez  wut  they  wuz 

afore  ole  Mem'nger  signed  'em, 
An'   go   off  middlin'   wal   for   drinks, 

when  ther'  'sa  knife  behind  'em  ; 
We   du   miss   silver,  jes'  fer  thet  an' 

ridin'  in  a  bus, 
Now  we  've  shook  off  the  desputs  thet 

wuz  suckin'  at  our  pus  ; 
An'  it 's  because  the  South  's  so  rich  ; 

't  wuz  nat'ral  to  expec' 
Supplies  o'  change  wuz  jes'  the  things 

we  should  n't  recollec'  ; 
We  'd  ough'  to  ha'  thought  aforehan', 

though,  o'  thet  good  rule  o'  Crock- 
ett's, 
For 't  's  tiresome   cairin'   cotton-bales 

an'  niggers  in  your  pockets, 
Ner  't  ain't  quite  hendy  to  pass  off  one 

o'  your  six-foot  Guineas 


An'  git  your  halves  an'  quarters  back 

in  gals  an'  pickaninnies  : 
Wal,  't  ain't  quite  all  a  feller  'd  ax,  but 

then  ther'  's  this  to  say, 
It  's  on'y  jest  among  ourselves  thet  we 

expec'  to  pay  ; 
Our  system  would  ha'  caird  us  thru  in 

any  Bible  cent'ry, 
'Fore  this  onscripterl  plan  come  up  o' 

books  by  double  entry  ; 
We  go  the  patriarkle   here  out   o'    all 

sight  an'  hearin', 
For  Jacob  warn't   a  suckemstance  to 

Jeff  at  financierin' ; 
He  never  'd  thought  o'  borryin'   from 

Esau  like  all  nater 
An'  then  cornfiscatin'  all  debts  to  sech 

a  small  pertater  ; 
There  's  p'litickle  econ'my,  now,  com- 
bined 'ith  morril  beauty 
Thet     saycrifices    privit    eends    (your 

in'my's,  tu)  to  dooty  ! 
Wy,  Jeff  'd  ha'   gin  him  five  an'  won 

his  eye-teeth  'fore  he  knowed  it, 
An',  stid   o'  wastin'  pottage,  he  'd  ha' 

eat  it  up  an'  owed  it. 
But  I  wuz  goin'  on  to  say  how   I  come 

here  to  dwall  ;  — 
'Nough  said,  thet,  arter  lookin'  roun', 

I  liked  the  place  so  wal. 
Where   niggers   doos  a  double    good, 

with  us  atop  to  stiddy  'em, 
By  bein'  proofs  o'  prophecy  an1  suckle- 

atin'  medium, 
Where   a    man  's    sunthin'   coz    he  's 

white,  an'  whiskey  's  cheap  ez  fleas, 
An'  the  financial  pollercy  jes'  sooted  my 

idees, 
Thet   1  friz  down  right  where   I  wuz, 

merried  the  Widder  Shennon, 
(Her  thirds   wuz   part   in  cotton-land, 

part  in  the  curse  o'  Canaan,) 
An'  here  I  be  ez  lively  ez  a  chipmunk 

on  a  wall, 
With  nothin'  to  feel  riled  about  much 

later  'n  Eddam's  fall. 


Ez   fur  ez  human   foresight  goes,  we 

made  an  even  trade  : 
She  gut   an   overseer,  an'   I    a   fem'ly 

ready-made, 
(The  youngest  on  'em  's  'mos'  growed 

up,)  rugged  an'  spry  ez  weazles, 


26o 


THE   BIG  LOW  PAPERS. 


So  's  't  ther'  's  no  resk  o'  doctors'  bills 

fer  hoopin'-cough  an'  measles. 
Our  farm 'sat  Turkey-Buzzard  Roost, 

Little  Big  Boosy  River, 
Wal  located  in  allrespex,  — fer  't  ain't 

the  chills  'n'  fever 
Thet  makes  my  writin'  seem  to  squirm  ; 

a  Southuner  'd  allow  I  'd 
Some  call  to  shake,  for  I  've  jest   hed 

to  melleranew  cowhide. 
Miss  S.   is  all  'f  a   lady  ;   th'  ain't  no 

better  on  Big  Boosy 
Ner  one   with  more  accomplishmunts 

'twixt  here  an'  Tuscaloosy  ; 
She  's  an  F.  F.,   the  tallest  kind,  an' 

prouder  'n  the  Gran'  Turk, 
An'  never  hed  a  relative  thet  done  a 

stroke  o'  work ; 
Hern  ain't   a  scrimpin'  fem'ly  sech  ez 

yon  git  up  Down  East, 
Th'  ain't  a  growed  member  on  't  but 

owes  his  thousuns  et  the  least  : 
She  is  some  old  ;  but  then  agin  ther'  's 

drawbacks  in  my  sheer  : 
Wut  's  left  o'  me  ain't  more  'n  enough 

to  make  a  Brigadier : 
Wust  is,  thet  she  hez  tantrums  ;  she  's 

like  Seth  Moody's  gun 
(Him    thet    wuz  nicknamed  frum    his 

limp  Ole  Dot  an'  Kerry  One) ; 
He  'd  left  her  loaded  up  a  spell,  an'  hed 

to  git  her  clear, 
So  he  onhitched,  —  Jeerusalem  !    the 

middle  o'  last  year 
Wuz    right    nex'    door    compared     to 

where  she  kicked  the  critter  tu 
(Though  jest  where  he  brought  up  wuz 

wut  no  human  never  knew) : 
His  brother  Asaph  picked  her  up  an' 

tied  her  to  a  tree, 
An'  then  she  kicked  an  hour  'n'  a  half 

afore  she  'd  let  it  be  : 
Wal,  Miss  S.  doos  hev  cuttins-up  an' 

pourins-out  o'  vials, 
But  then  she  hez  her  widder's  thirds, 

an'  all  on  us  hez*trials. 
My    objec',    though,    in    writin'    now 

warn't  to  allude  to  sech, 
But    to   another    suckemstance    more 

dellykit  to  tech,  — 
I  want  thet  you  should  grad'lly  break 

my  merriage  to  Jerushy, 
An'  there  's  aheap  of  argymunts thet 's 

emple  to  indooce  ye  : 


Fust  place,  State's   Prison, —  wal,  it 's 

true  it  warn't  fer  crime,  o' course, 
But  then  it  's  jest  the  same  fer  her  in 

gittin'  a  disvorce  ; 
Nex'  place,  my  State  's  secedin'  out  hez 

leg'lly  lef '  me  free 
To  merry  any  one  I  please,  pervidin' 

it  's  a  she  ; 
Fin'lly,  I   never  wun't  come  back,  she 

need  n't  hev  no  fear  on  't, 
But  then  it  's  wal  to  fix  things  right  fer 

fear  Miss  S.  should  hear  on  't ; 
Lastly,    I  've  gut  religion    South,  an' 

Rushy  she  's  a  pagan 
Thet  sets  by  th'  graven  nniges  o'  th» 

gret  Nothun  Dagon  ; 
(Now  I  hain't  seen  one  in  six  munts, 

for,  sence  our  Treashry  Loan, 
Though  yaller  boys  is  thick   anough, 

eagles  hez  kind  o'  flown  ;) 
An'  ef  J    wants  a  stronger  pint   than 

them  thet  I  hev  stated, 
Wy,   she   's  an  aliun  in"my   now,  an' 

I  've  been  cornfiscated, — 
For  sence  we  've  entered  on  th'  estate 

o'  the  late  nayshnul  eagle, 
She  hain't  no  kin'  o'  right  but  jes'  wut 

I  allow  ez  legle  : 
Wut  doos  Secedin'  mean,  eft  ain't  thet 

nat'rul  rights  hez  riz,  'n' 
Thet  wut  is  mine  's  my  own,  but  wut's 

another  man's  ain't  his'n  ? 


Besides,  I  could  n't  do  no  else  ;  Miss 

S.  suz  she  to  me, 
"You  've   sheered   my  bed,"   [tliet 's 

when  I  paid  my  interduction  fee 
To    Southun    rites,]   "an'  kep'   your 

sheer,"   [wal,  I  allow  it  sticked 
So  's  't  I   wuz   most  six  weeks  in  jail 

afore  I  gut  me  picked,] 
"  Ner   never   paid  no  demmiges  ;  but 

thet  wun't  do  no  harm, 
Pervidin'    thet    you  '11    ondertake    to 

oversee  the  farm  ; 
(My  eldes'  boy  's  so  took  up,  wut  with 

the  Ringtail  Rangers 
An'  settin'  in  the  Jestice-Court  for  wel- 

comin'  o'  strangers"  ;) 
[He  sot  on  me  ;]  "  an'  so,  ef  you  '11  jest 

ondertake  the  care 
Upon  a  mod'rit  sellery,  we'll  up  an' 

call  it  square  ; 


THE  B I  GLOW  PAPERS. 


261 


But  ef  you  can't  conclude,"  suz  she, 

an'  give  a  kin'  o'  grin, 
•'  Wy,  the  Gran'  Jurymen,  I  'xpect,  '11 

hev  to  set  agin." 
Thet  's  the  way  metters  stood  at  fust ; 

now  wut  wuz  I  to  du, 
But  jes'  to  make  the  best  on  't  an'  off 

coat  an'  buckle  tu  ? 
Ther'  ain't  a  livin'  man  thet  finds  an 

income  necessarier 
Than  me, —  bimeby  I'll  tell  ye  how  I 

fin'lly  come  to  merry  her. 

She  hed  another  motive,  tu  :  I  mention 

of  it  here 
I"  encourage  lads  thet  's  growin'  up  to 

study  'n'  persevere, 
An'  show  'em  how  much  better 't  pays 

to  mind  their  winter-schoolin' 
Than  to  go  off  on  benders  V  sech,  an' 

waste  their  time  in  foolin'  ; 
Gf't   warn't   for     studyin'    evenins,    I 

never  'd  ha'  been  here 
An  orn'ment  o'  saciety,  in   my  appro- 
prut  spear : 
She  wanted  somebody,  ye  see,  o'  taste 

an'  cultivation, 
To  talk  along  o'  preachers  when   they 

stopt  to  the  plantation  ; 
For  folks   in  Dixie  th't  read  an'  rite, 

onless  it  is  by  jarks, 
Is  skurce  ez  wut  they  wuz  among  th' 

oridgenle  patriarchs  ; 
i'o  fit  a  feller  f  wut  they  call  the  soshle 

higherarchy, 
All  thet  you  've  gut  to  know  is  jes'  be- 

yund  an  evrage  darky  ; 
Schoolin'  's   wut   they   can't   seem    to 

stan',  they  're  tu  consarned  high- 
pressure, 
An'  knowin'  t'  much  might  spile  a  boy 

for  bein'  a  Secesher. 
We   hain't  no  settled   preachin'  here, 

ner  ministeril  taxes ; 
The  min'ster's    only   settlement  's  the 

carpet-bag  he  packs  his 
Razor   an'  soap-brush   intu,   with   his 

hymbook  an'  his  Bible, — 
But  they  du  preach,  I  swan  to  man,  it 's 

purkly  indescrib'le  ! 
They  go  it  like  an  Ericsson's  ten-hoss- 

power  coleric  ingine. 
An'  make    Ole   Split- Foot   winch   an* 

squi.m,  for  all  he  '3  used  to  singe- 
in'  ; 


Hawkins's  whetstone  ain't  a  pinch  o' 

primin'  to  the  innards 
To  hearin'  on  'em  put  free  grace  t'  a  lot 

o'  tough  old  sinhards  ! 
But  I  must  eend  this  letter  now  :  'fore 

Jong  I  '11  send  a  fresh  un  ; 
I  've  lots  o'  things  to  write  about,  per- 

ticklerly  Seceshun  : 
I  'm  called  off  now  to  mission-work,  to 

let  aleetle  law  in 
To  Cynthy's  hide  :  an'  so,  till  death, 
Yourn, 

B1RDOFREDUM    SAWIN. 


No.  II. 

MASON      AND      SLIDELL :     A 
YANKEE   IDYLL. 

TO  THE  EDITORS  OF  THE  ATLANTIC 
MONTHLY. 

JAALAM,  6th  Jan.,  1862. 

Gentlemen,  —  I  was  highly  gratified 
by  the  insertion  of  a  portion  of  my  let- 
ter in  the  last  number  of  your  valua- 
ble and  entertaining  Miscellany,  though 
in  a  type  which  rendered  its  substance 
inaccessible  even  to  the  beautiful  new 
spectacles  presented  to  me  by  a  Com- 
mittee of  the  Parish  on  New  Year's 
Day.  I  trust  that  I  was  able  to  bear 
your  very  considerable  abridgment  of 
my  lucubrations  with  a  spirit  becoming 
a  Christian.  My  third  granddaughter, 
Rebekah,  aged  fourteen  years,  and 
whom  I  have  trained  to  read  slowly  and 
with  proper  emphasis  (a  practice  too 
much  neglected  in  our  modern  systems 
of  education),  read  aloud  to  me  the  ex- 
cellent essay  upon  "  Old  Age,"  theau- 
thour  of  which  I  cannot  help  suspecting 
to  be  a  young  man  \*fio  has  never  yet 
known  what  it  was  to  have  snow  (cani- 
ties morosa)  upon  his  own  roof.  Dis- 
solve frigus,  large  super foco  ligna  re- 
po?iens,  is  a  rule  for  the  young,  whose 
wood-pile  is  yet  abundant  for  such 
cheerful  lenitives.  A  good  life  behind 
him  is  the  best  thing  to  keep  an  old 
man's  shoulders  from  shivering  at  every 
breath   of  sorrow   or   ill- fortune.     But 


26l 


THE   BIGLOIV  PAPERS. 


methinks  it  were  easier  for  an  old  man 
to  feel  the  disadvantages  of  youth  than 
the  advantages  of  age.  Of  these  lat- 
ter I  reckon  one  of  the  chiefest  to  be 
this ;  that  we  attach  a  less  inordinate 
value  to  our  own  productions,  and, 
distrusting  daily  more  and  more  our 
own  wisdom  (with  the  conceit  whereof 
at  twenty  we  wrap  ourselves  away  from 
knowledge  as  with  a  garment  ,  do  rec- 
oncile ourselves  with  the  wisdom  of 
God.  I  could  hive  wished,  indeed, 
that  room  might  have  been  made  for 
the  residue  of  the  anecdote  relating  to 
Deacon  Tinkham,  which  would  not 
only  have  gratified  a  natural  curiosity 
on  the  part  of  the  publick  (as  I  have 
reason  to  know  from  several  letters  of 
inquiry  already  received  ,  but  would 
also,  as  I  think,  have  largely  increased 
the  circulation  of  your  Magazine  in 
this  town.  Nihil  humani  alienum, 
there  is  a  curiosity  about  the  affairs  of 
our  neighbours  which  is  not  only  par- 
donable, but  even  commendable.  But 
I  shall  abide  a  more  fitting  season. 

As  touching  the  following  literary 
effort  of  Esquire  Biglow,  much  might 
be  profitably  said  on  the  topick  of 
Idyllick  and  Pastoral  Poetry,  and  con- 
cerning the  proper  distinctions  to  be 
made  between  them,  from  Theocritus, 
the  inventor  of  the  former,  to  Crllins, 
the  latest  authour  I  know  of  who  has 
emulated  the  classicks  in  the  latter 
style  But  in  the  time  of  Civil  War 
worthy  a  Milton  to  defend  and  a  Lucan 
to  sing,  it  may  be  reasonably  doubted 
whether  the  publick,  never  too  studious 
of  serious  instruction,  might  not  consid- 
er other  objects  more  deserving  of  pres- 
ent attention.  Concerning  the  title  of 
Idyll,  which  Mr.  Biglow  has  adonted 
at  my  suggestion,  it  may  not  be  improp- 
er to  animadvert^that  the  name  prop- 
erly signifies  a  poem  somewhat  rustick 
in  phrase  for,  though  the  learned  are 
not  agreed  as  to  the  particular  dialect 
employed  by  Theocritus,  they  are  uni- 
versanimous  both  as  to  its  rusticity  and 
its  capacity  of  rising  now  and  then  to 
the  level  of  more  elevated  sentiments 
and  expressions),  while  it  is  also  de- 
scriptive of  real  scenery  and  manners. 


Yet  it  must  be  admited  that  the  pro- 
duction now  in  question  (which  here 
and  there  bears  perhaps  too  plainly  the 
marks  of  my  correcting  hand)  does  par- 
take of  the  nature  of  a  Pastoral,  inas- 
much as  the  interlocutors  therein  are 
purely  imaginary  beings,  and  the  whole 
is  little  better  than  Kanvov  crxia?  orap. 
The  plot  was,  as  I  believe,  suggested 
by  the  "  Twa  Briggs  "  of  Robert  Burns, 
a  Scottish  poet  of  the  last  century,  as 
that  found  its  prototype  in  the  "  Mutu- 
al Complaint  of  Plainstanes  and  Cau- 
sey "  by  Fergusson,  though  the  metre 
of  this  latter  be  different  by  a  foot  in 
each  verse.  I  reminded  my  talented 
young  parishioner  and  friend  that  Con- 
cord Bridge  had  long  since  yielded  to 
the  edacious  tooth  of  Time.  But  he 
answered  me  to  this  effect  :  that  there 
was  no  greater  mistake  of  an  authour 
than  to  suppose  the  reader  had  no  fancy 
of  his  own  ;  that,  if  once  that  faculty 
was  to  be  called  into  activity,  it  were 
belter  to  be  in  for  the  whole  sheep  than 
the  shoulder  ;  and  that  he  knew  Con- 
cord like  a  book,  —  an  expression 
questionable  in  propriety,  since  there 
are  few  things  with  which  he  is  not 
more  familiar  than  with  the  printed 
page.  In  proof  of  what  he  affirmed,  he 
showed  me  some  verses  which  with 
others  he  had  stricken  out  as  too  much 
delaying  the  action,  but  which  I  com- 
municate in  this  place  because  thev 
rightly  define  "  punkin-seed"  (which 
Mr.  Bartlett  would  have  a  kind  of 
perch, — a  creature  to  which  I  have 
found  a  rod  or  pole  not  to  be  so  easily 
equivalent  in  our  inland  waters  as  in 
the  books  of  arithmetic),  and  because 
it  conveys  an  eulogium  on  the  worthy 
son  of  an  excellent  father,  with  whose 
acquaintance  (eheu,  fugaces  anni .')  I 
was  formerly  honoured. 


"  But  nowadays  the  Bridge  .ain't  wut  they 

show, 
So  much  ez  Em'son,   Hawthorne,  an'  Tho- 

reau. 
I  know  the  village,  though  ;  was  sent  there 

once 
A-schoolin',   'cause  to  home   I    played  the 

dunce  ; 
An'  I  ve  ben  sence  a-visitin'  the  Jedg«, 


THE   B /GEO  IV  PAPERS. 


263 


Whose   yarding  whispers   with    the    river's 

edge, 
Where  1   ve  sot  mornin  s  lazy  as  the  bream, 
Whose  on'y  business  is  to  head  up-stream, 
("\Ye  call  'em  punkin-seed,)  or  else  in  chat 
Along  'th  the  Jedge,  who  covers  with  his  hat 
More  wit  an'  gumption  an'  shrewd  Yankee 

sense 
Than  there  is  mosses  on  anole  stone  fence." 

Concerning  the  subject-matter  of  the 
verses,  I  have  not  the  leisure  at  pres- 
ent to  write  so  fully  as  I  could  wish, 
my  time  being  occupied  with  the  prep- 
aration of  a  discourse  for  the  forth- 
coming bi-centenary  celebration  of  the 
first  settlement  of  Jaalam  East  Parish. 
It  may  gratify  the  publick  interest  to 
mention  the  circumstance,  that  my  in- 
vestigations to  this  end  have  enabled 
me  to  verify  the  fact  (of  much  historick 
importance,  and  hitherto  hotly  debated) 
that  Shearjashub  Tarbox  was  the  first 
child  of  white  parentage  born  in  this 
town,  being  named  in  his  father's  will 
under  date  August  7'",  or  9th,  1662.  It 
is  well  known  that  those  who  advocate 
the  claims  of  Mehetable  Goings  are 
unable  to  find  any  trace  of  her  existence 
prior  to  October  of  that  year.  As  re- 
spects the  settlement  of  the  Mason  and 
Slidell  question,  Mr.  Biglow  has  not 
incorrectly  stated  the  popular  sentiment, 
so  far  as  I  can  judge  by  its  expression 
in  this  locality.  For  myself,  I  feel 
more  sorrow  than  resentment  :  for  I  am 
old  enough  to  have  heard  those  talk  of 
England  who  still,  even  after  the  un- 
happy estrangement,  could  not  un- 
school  their  lips  from  calling  her  the 
Mother-Country.  But  England  has 
insisted  on  ripping  up  old  wounds,  and 
has  undone  the  healing  work  of  fifty 
years  ;  for  nations  do  not  reason,  they 
only  feel,  and  the  spretce  injuria formiE 
rankles  in  their  minds  as  bitterly  as  in 
that  of  a  woman.  And  because  this  is 
so,  I  feel  the  more  satisfaction  that  our 
Government  has  acted  (as  all  Govern- 
ments should,  standing  as  they  do  be- 
tween the  people  and  their  passions)  as 
if  it  had  arrived  at  years  of  discretion. 
There  are  three  short  and  simple  words, 
the  hardest  of  all  to  pronounce  in  any 
language  (and  I  suspect  the"  were  no 
easier  before  the  confusion  of  tongues), 


but  which  no  man  or  nation  that  cannot 
utter  can  claim  to  have  arrived  at  man- 
hood. Those  words  are,  /  ivas  wrong , 
and  I  am  proud  that,  while  England 
played  the  boy,  our  rulers  had  strength 
enough  from  the  People  below  and 
wisdom  enough  from  God  above  to 
quit  themselves  like  men. 

The  sore  points  on  both  sides  have 
been  skilfully  exasperated  by  interest- 
ed and  unscrupulous  persons,  who  saw 
in  a  war  between  the  two  countries  the 
only  hope  of  profitable  return  for 
their  investment  in  Confederate  stock, 
whether  political  or  financial.  The  al- 
ways supercilious,  often  insulting,  and 
sometimes  even  brutal  tone  of  British 
journals  and  publick  men  has  certainly 
not  tended  to  soothe  whatever  resent- 
ment might  exist  in  America. 

"  Perhaps  it  was  right  to  dissemble  your  love. 
But  why  did  you  kick  me  down  stairs  ?  " 

We  have  no  reason  to  complain  that 
England,  as  a  necessary  consequence 
of  her  clubs,  has  become  a  great  society 
for  the  minding  of  other  people's  busi- 
ness, and  we  can  smile  good-naturedly 
when  she  lectures  other  nations  on  the 
sins  of  arrogance  and  conceit  :  but  we 
may  justly  consider  it  a  breach  of  the 
political  convenances  which  are  expect- 
ed to  regulate  the  intercourse  of  one 
well-bred  government  with  another, 
when  men  holding  places  in  the  minis- 
try allow  themselves  to  dictate  our  do- 
mestic policy,  to  instruct  us  in  our  duty, 
and  to  stigmatize  as  unholy  a  war  for 
the  rescue  of  whatever  a  high-minded 
people  should  hold  most  vital  and  most 
sacred.  Was  it  in  good  taste,  that  I 
may  use  the  mildest  term,  for  Earl 
Russell  to  expound  our  own  Constitu- 
tion to  President  Lincoln,  or  to  make  a 
new  and  fallacious  application  of  an  old 
phrase  for  our  benefit,  and  tell  us  that 
the  Rebels  were  fighting  for  indepen- 
dence and  we  for  empire?  As  if  all 
wars  for  independence  were  by  nature 
just  and  deserving  of  sympathy,  and 
all  wars  for  empire  ignoble  and  worthy 
only  of  reprobation,  or  as  if  these  easy 
phrases  in  any  way  characterized  this 
terrible  struggle,  —  terrible  not  so  truly 


264 


THE   BIGLOJV  PAPERS. 


in  any  superficial  sense,  as  from  the 
essential  and  deadly  enmity  of  the  prin- 
ciples that  underlie  it  His  Lordship's 
bit  of  borrowed  rhetoric  would  justify 
Smith  O'Brien,  Nana  Sahib,  and  the 
Maori  chieftains,  while  it  would  con- 
demn nearly  every  war  in  which  Eng- 
land has  ever  been  engaged.  Was  it 
so  very  presumptuous  in  us  to  think 
that  it  would  be  decorous  in  English 
statesmen  if  they  spared  time  enough  to 
acquire  some  kind  of  knowledge,  though 
of  the  most  elementary  kind,  in  regard 
to  this  country  and  the  questions  at 
issue  here,  before  they  pronounced  so 
off-hand  a  judgment?  Or  is  political 
information  expected  to  come  Dogberry- 
fashion  in  England,  like  reading  and 
writing,  by  nature  ? 

And  now  all  respectable  England  is 
wondering  at  our  irritability,  and  sees  a 
quite  satisfactory  explanation  of  it  in 
our  national  vanity.  Suave  mari 
magna,  it  is  pleasant,  sitting  in  the 
easy-chairs  of  Downing  Street,  to  sprin- 
kle pepper  on  the  raw  wounds  of  a 
kindred  people  struggling  for  life,  and 
philosophical  to  find  in  self-conceit  the 
cause  of  our  instinctive  resentment. 
Surely  we  were  of  all  nations  the  least 
liable  to  any  temptation  of  vanity  at  a 
time  when  the  gravest  anxiety  and  the 
keenest  sorrow  were  never  absent  from 
our  hearts.  Nor  is  conceit  the  exclu- 
sive attribute  of  any  one  nation.  The 
earliest  of  English  travellers,  Sir  John 
Mandeville,  took  a  less  provincial  view 
of  the  matter  when  he  said,  "  For  fro 
what  partie  of  the  erthe  that  men 
duellen,  other  aboven  or  beneathen,  it 
semethe  alweys  to  hem  that  duellen 
that  thei  gon  more  righte  than  any 
other  folke."  The  English  have  al- 
ways had  their  fair  share  of  this  amia- 
ble quality.  We  may  say  of  them  still, 
as  the  authour  of  the  Lettres  Cabalis- 
tiques  said  of  them  more  than  a  century 
ago,  "  Ces  der>iiers  disent  naturelle- 
ment  qu'il  riy  a  qit'eitx  qui  soient  es- 
timables."  And,  as  he  also  says, 
"  J'aimerois  presque  autant  totnber 
tntre  les  mains  a"un  Inquisiteur  que 
Sun  Anglois  qui  me  fait  sentir  sans 
ttsse  combien  U  s'estime  plus  que  moi, 


et  qui  ne  daigne  me  parler  que  pout 
injurier  ma  Nation  et  pour  m'ennuye* 
du  recit  des  grandes  qualites  de  la 
sienne."  Of  this  Bull  we  may  safely 
say  with  Horace,  habetfccmim  in  cor- 
nu.  What  we  felt  to  be  especially  in- 
sulting was  the  quiet  assumption  that 
the  descendants  of  men  who  left  the 
Old  World  for  the  sake  of  principle, 
and  who  had  made  the  wilderness  into 
a  New  World  patterned  after  an  Idea, 
could  not  possibly  be  susceptible  of  a 
generous  or  lofty  sentiment,  could  have 
no  feeling  of  nationality  deeper  than 
that  of  a  tradesman  for  his  shop.  One 
would  have  thought,  in  listening  to 
England,  that  we  were  presumptuous 
in  fancying  that  we  were  a  nation  at  all, 
or  had  any  other  principle  of  union 
than  that  of  booths  at  a  fair,  where 
there  is  no  higher  notion  of  govern- 
ment than  the  constable,  or  better 
image  of  God  than  that  stamped  upon 
the  current  coin. 

It  is  time  for  Englishmen  to  con- 
sider whether  there  was  nothing  in  the 
spirit  of  their  press  and  of  their  lead- 
ing public  men  calculated  to  rouse  a 
just  indignation,  and  to  cause  a  perma- 
nent estrangement  on  the  part  of  any 
nation  capable  of  self-respect,  and  sen- 
sitively jealous,  as  ours  then  was,  of 
foreign  interference.  Was  there  noth- 
ing in  the  indecent  haste  with  which  bel- 
ligerent rights  were  conceded  to  the 
Rebels,  nothing  in  the  abrupt  tone  as- 
sumed in  the  Trent  case,  nothing  in  the 
fitting  out  of  Confederate  privateers, 
that  might  stir  the  blood  of  a  people 
already  overcharged  with  doubt,  sus- 
picion, and  terrible  responsibility  ?  The 
laity  in  any  country  do  not  stop  to  con- 
sider points  of  law,  but  they  have  an 
instinctive  appreciation  of  the  animus 
that  actuates  the  policy  of  a  foreign 
nation  ;  and  in  our  own  case  they  re- 
membered that  the  British  authorities 
in  Canada  did  not  wait  till  diplomacy 
could  send  home  to  England  for  her 
slow  official  tinder  box  to  fire  the  "  Car- 
oline." Add  to  this,  what  every  sen- 
sible American  knew,  that  the  moral 
support  of  England  was  equal  to  an 
army  of  two  hundred  thousand  men  to 


THE  BIGLOtV  PAPERS. 


a65 


the  ReDels,  while  it  insured  us  another 
yea'  or  two  of  exhausting  war.  It  was 
not  so  much  the  spite  of  her  words 
(though  the  time  might  have  been 
more  tastefully  chosen)  as  the  actual 
power  for  evil  in  them  that  we  felt  as  a 
deadly  wrong.  Perhaps  the  most  im- 
mediate and  efficient  cause  of  mere  ir- 
ritation was  the  sudden  and  unaccount- 
able change  of  manner  on  the  other 
side  of  the  water.  Only  six  months 
before,  the  Prince  of  Wales  had  come 
over  to  call  us  cousins ;  and  every- 
where it  was  nothing  but  "our  Amer- 
ican brethren,"  that  great  offshoot  of 
British  institutions  in  the  New  World, 
so  almost  identical  with  them  in  laws, 
language,  and  literature,  —  this  last  of 
the  alliterative  compliments  being  so 
bitterly  true,  that  perhaps  it  will  not  be 
retracted  even  now.  To  this  outburst 
of  long-repressed  affection  we  respond- 
ed with  genuine  warmth,  if  with  some- 
thing of  the  awkwardness  of  a  poor 
relation  bewildered  with  the  sudden 
tightening  of  the  ties  of  consanguinity 
when  it  is  rumored  that  he  has  come 
into  a  large  estate.  Then  came  the 
Rebellion,  and,  presto  !  a  flaw  in  our 
titles  was  discovered,  the  plate  we  were 
promised  at  the  family  table  is  flung 
at  our  head,  and  we  were  again  the 
scum  of  creation,  intolerably  vulgar,  at 
once  cowardly  and  overbearing,  —  no 
relations  of  theirs,  after  all,  but  a  dreggy 
hybrid  of  the  basest  bloods  of  Europe. 
Panurge  was  not  quicker  to  call  Friar 
John  his  former  friend  I  cannot  help 
thinking  of  Walter  Mapes's  jingling 
paraphase  of  Petronius,  — 

"  Dummodo  sim  splendidis  vestibus  ornatus, 
Et  multa  familia  sim  circumvallatus, 
Prudens  sum  et  sapiens  et  morigeratus, 
Et  tuus  nepos  sum  et  tu  meus  cognatus," — 

which  I  may  freely  render  thus  :  — 

So  long  as  I  was  prosperous,  I  'd  dinners  by 
the  dozen, 

Was  well-bred,  witty,  virtuous,  and  every- 
body's cousin  ; 

If  luck  should  turn,  as  well  she  may,  her 
fancy  is  so  flexile, 

Will  virtue,  cousinship,  and  all  return  with 
her  from  exile? 

There  was  nothing  in  all  this  to  ex- 
asperate a  philosopher,  much  to  make 


him  smile  rather  ;  but  the  earth's  sur- 
face is  not  chiefly  inhabited  by  philos- 
ophers, and  I  revive  the  recollection  of 
it  now  in  perfect  good-humour,  merely 
by  way  of  suggesting  to  our  ci-dtvant 
British  cousins,  that  it  would  have  been 
easier  for  them  to  hold  their  tongues 
than  for  us  to  keep  our  tempers  under 
the  circumstances. 

The  English  Cabinet  made  a  blun- 
der, unquestionably,  in  taking  it  so 
hastily  for  granted  that  the  United 
States  had  fallen  forever  from  their 
position  as  a  first-rate  power,  and  it 
was  natural  that  they  should  vent  a  lit- 
tle of  their  vexation  on  the  people 
whose  inexplicable  obstinacy  in  main- 
taining freedom  and  order,  and  in  re- 
sisting degradation,  was  likely  to  con- 
vict them  of  their  mistake.  But  if 
bearing  a  grudge  be  the  sure  mark  of  a 
small  mind  in  the  individual,  can  it  be 
a  proof  of  high  spirit  in  a  nation?  If 
the  result  of  the  present  estrangement 
between  the  two  countries  shall  be  to 
make  us  more  independent  of  British 
twaddle  (/udomito  nee  dira  ferens 
stipendix  Tauro),  so  much  the  better  ; 
but  if  it  is  to  make  us  insensible  to  th« 
value  of  British  opinion,  it  matters 
where  it  gives  us  the  judgment  of  an 
impartial  and  cultivated  outsider,  if  we 
are  to  shut  ourselves  out  from  the  ad- 
vantages of  English  culture,  the  loss 
will  be  ours,  and  not  theirs.  Because 
the  door  of  the  old  homestead  has  been 
once  slammed  in  our  faces,  shall  we 
in  a  huff  reject  all  future  advances  of 
conciliation,  and  cut  ourselves  foolishly 
off  from  any  share  in  the  humanizing 
influences  of  the  place,  with  its  ineffa- 
ble riches  of  association,  its  heirlooms 
of  immemorial  culture,  its  historic 
monuments,  ours  no  less  than  theirs, 
its  noble  gallery  of  ancestral  portraits? 
We  have  only  to  succeed,  and  England 
will  not  only  respect,  but,  for  the  first 
time,  begin  to  understand  us.  And 
let  us  not,  in  our  justifiable  indignation 
at  wanton  insult,  forget  that  England  is 
not  the  England  only  of  snobs  who 
dread  the  democracy  they  do  not  com- 
prehend, but  the  England  of  history,  of 
heroes,   statesmen,   and  poets,   whos* 


266 


THE   B I  GLOW  PAPERS. 


names  are  dear,  and  their  influence  as 
salutary  to  us  as  to  her. 

Let  us  strengthen  the  hands  of  those 
in  authority  over  us,  and  curb  our  own 
tongues,  remembering  that  General 
Wait  commonly  proves  in  the  end  more 
than  a  match  for  General  Headlong, 
and  that  the  Good  Book  ascribes  safety 
to  a  multitude,  indeed,  but  not  to  a  mob, 
of  counsellours.  Let  us  remember  and 
perpend  the  words  of  Paulus  Emilius 
to  the  people  of  Rome  ;  that,  "  if  they 
judged  they  could  manage  the  war  to 
more  advantage  by  any  o^her,  he  would 
willing  yield  up  his  charge  ;  but  if  they 
confided  in  him,  tluy  were  not  to  make 
themselves  his  colleagues  in  his  office, 
or  raise  reports,  or  criticise  his  ac- 
tions, but,  without  talking,  supply  him 
with  means  and  assistance  necessary 
to  the  carrying  on  of  the  war  ;  for,  if 
they  proposed  to  command  their  own 
commander,  they  would  render  this 
expedition  more  ridiculous  than  the 
former."  [Vide  Plutarchuni  in  Vita 
P.  E.)  Let  us  also  not  forget  what  the 
same  excellent  authour  says  concern- 
ing Perseus's  fear  of  spending  money, 
and  not  permit  the  covetousness  of 
Brother  Jonathan  to  be  the  good  for- 
tune of  Jefferson  Davis.  For  my  own 
part,  till  I  am  ready  to  admit  the  Com- 
mander-in-Chief to  my  pulpit,  I  shall 
abstain  from  planning  his  battles.  If 
courage  be  the  sword,  yet  is  patience 
the  armour  of  a  nation  ;  and  in  our  de- 
sire for  peace,  let  us  never  be  will- 
ing to  surrender  the  Constitution  be- 
queathed us  by  fathers  at  least  as  wise 
as  ourselves  (even  with  Jefferson  Davis 
to  help  us),  and,  with  those  degenerate 
Romans,  tula  el  presentia  quam  Vetera 
et  periculosa  malle. 

And  not  only  should  we  bridle  our 
own  tongues,  but  the  pens  of  others, 
which  are  swift  to  convey  useful  intel- 
ligence to  the  enemy.  This  is  no  new 
inconvenience ;  for,  under  date,  3d 
June,  1745,  General  Pepperell  wrote 
thus  to  Governor  Shirley  from  Louis- 
bourg  :  —  "  What  your  Excellency  ob- 
serves of  the  army's  icing  made  ac- 
quainted with  any  plans  proposed,  un- 
til ready  to  be  put  in  execution,  has 


always  been  disagreeable  to  me,  and 
I  have  given  many  cautions  relating  to 
it.  But  when  your  Excellency  con- 
siders that  our  Council  of  War  con- 
sists of  more  than  twenty  members, 
1  am  persuaded  you  will  ih'\nn  it  im- 
possible for  me  to  hinder  it,  if  any  of 
them  will  persist  in  communicating  te 
interior  officers  and  soldiers  what  ought 
to  be  kept  secret.  I  am  informed  that 
the  Boston  newspapers  are  filled  with 
paragraphs  from  private  letters  relating 
to  the  expedition.  Will  your  Excellency 
permit  me  to  say  I  think  it  may  be  of 
ill  consequence  ?  Would  it  not  be  con- 
venient, if  your  Excellency  should  for- 
bid the  Printers'  inserting  such  news?  " 
Verily,  if  tempora  mulantur,  we  may 
question  the  et  nos  tnutamur  in  illis ; 
and  if  tongues  be  leaky,  it  will  need  all 
hands  at  the  pumps  to  save  the  Ship 
of  State.  Our  history  dotes  and  re- 
peats itself.  If  Sassycus  (rather  than 
Alcibiades)  find  a  parallel  in  Beaure- 
gard, so  Weakwash,  as  he  is  called  by 
the  brave  Lieutenant  Lion  Gardiner, 
need  not  seek  far  among  our  own 
Sachems  for  his  antitype. 
With  respect. 

Your  obt  humble  servt, 

Homer  Wilbur,  A.  M. 


I  love  to  start  out  arter  night 's  begun, 
An'  all  the  chores  about  the  farm  are 

done, 
The  critters  milked  an'  foddered,  gates 

shet  fast, 
Tools  cleaned  aginst  to-morrer,  supper 

past, 
An'    Nancy  darnin'   by  her  ker'sene 

lamp,  — 
I  love,  I  say,  to  start  upon  a  tramp, 
To  shake  the  kinkles  out  o'  back   an' 

legs, 
An'  kind  o'  rack  my  life  off  from  the 

dregs 
Thet  's  apt  to  settle  in  the  buttery-hutch 
Of   folks    thet    foller   in  one   rut   too 

much  : 
Hard  work   is   good    an'   wholesome, 

past  all  doubt  ; 


THE  BIG  LOW  PAPERS. 


267 


But 't  ain't  so,  ef  the  mind  gits  tuck- 
ered out. 
Now,  bein'   boru   in   Middlesex,   you 

know, 
There 's  certin  spots  where  I  like  best 

to  go: 
The  Concord  road,  for  instance,  (I,  for 

one, 
Most  gin'lly  oilers  call  it  John  Bull's 

Run,) 
The  field  o'  Lexin'ton  where  England 

tried 
The  fastest  colours  thet  she  ever  dyed, 
Au'Concord  Bridge,  thet  Davis,  when 

he  came, 
Found  was  the  bee-line  track  to  heaven 

an'  fame, 
Ez  all  roads  be  by  natur',  ef  your  soul 
Don't  sneak  thru  shun-pikes  so  's  to 

save  the  toll. 

They  're  'most  too  fur  away,  take  too 

much  time 
To  visit  oPen,  ef  it  ain't  in  rhyme  ; 
But  the  's  a  walk   thet  's   hendier,   a 

sight, 
An'  suits  me   fust-rate   of  a  winter's 

night,  — 
I  mean  the  round  whale's-back  o'  Pros- 
pect Hill. 
I  love  tol'iter  there  while   night  grows 

still, 
An'  in  the  twinklin'  villages  about, 
Fust  here,  then  there,  the  well-saved 

lights  goes  out, 
An'  nary  sound  but  watch-dogs'  false 

alarms, 
Or  muffled  cock-crows  from  the  drowsy 

farms, 
Where  some  wise  rooster  (men  act  jest 

thet  way) 
Stands  to  't  thet  moon-rise  is  the  break 

o'  day : 
(So    Mister    Seward     sticks  a    three- 
months'  pin 
Where  the  war  'd  oughto  eend,  then 

tries  agin  ; 
My  gran'ther's  rule  was  safer  'n  't  is 

to  crow : 
Don't    never    prophesy,  —  onless    ye 

know.) 
I  love  to  muse  there  till  it  kind  o'  seems 
Ei  ef  the   world  went  eddyin'  off  in 

dreams ; 


The  northwest  wind  thet  twitches  at 
my  baird 

Blows  out  o'  sturdier  days  not  easy 
scared, 

An'  the  same  moon  thet  this  Decem- 
ber shines 

Starts  out  the  tents  an'  booths  o'  Put- 
nam's lines ; 

The  rail-fence  posts,  acrost  the  hill  thet 
runs, 

Turn  ghosts  o'  sogers  should'rin'  ghosts 
o'  guns  ; 

Ez  wheels  the  sentry,  glints  a  flash  o' 
light, 

Along  the  firelock  won  at  Concord 
Fight, 

An',  'twixt  the  silences,  now  fur,  now 
nigh, 

Rings  the  sharp  chellenge,  hums  the 
low  reply. 

Ez   I   was  settin'   so,   it    warn't  long 

sence, 
Mixin'   the    puffict  with   the   present 

tense, 
I  heerd  two  voices  som'ers  in  the  air, 
Though,  ef  I  was  to  die,  I   can't  tell 

where  : 
Voices   I   call  'em  :    't  was  a  kind  o' 

sough 
Like     pine-trees     thet    the     wind  's 

ageth'rin'  through  ; 
An',  fact,  I  thought  it  was  the  wind  a 

spell, 
Then  some  misdoubted,  could  n't  lairly 

tell, 
Fust  sure,  then  not,  jest  as  you  hold 

an  eei, 
I  knowed,  an*  did  n't,  —  fin'lly  seemed 

to  feel 
'T  was  Concord  Bridge  a  talkin'  off  to 

kill 
With  the  Stone  Spike  thet's  druv  thru 

Bunker  Hill  ; 
Whether 't  was  so,  or  ef  I  on'y  dreamed, 
I  could  n't  say;  I  tell  it  ez  it  seemed. 

THE    BRIDGE. 

Wal,  neighbor,  tell  us  wut  's  turned  up 
thet 's  new? 

You  're  younger  'n  I  be,  —  nigher  Bos- 
ton, tu  : 

An'  down  to  Boston,  ef  you  take  their 
showin, 


263 


THE  B I  GLOW  PAPERS. 


Wut    they    don't    know  ain't    hardly 

wuth  the  knowin'. 
There  's   suntkin'  goin'   on,  I   know : 

las'  night 
The  British  sogers   killed  in  our  gret 

fight 
{Nigh   fifty    year   they  hed  n't  stirred 

nor  spoke) 
Made  sech  a  coil  you  'd  thought  a  dam 

hed  broke : 
Why,  one  he  up  an'  beat  a  revellee 
With  his  own  crossbones  on  a  holler 

tree, 
Till   all  the  graveyards  swarmed  out 

like  a  hive 
With  faces  I  hain't  seen  sence  Seventy- 
five. 
Wut  is  the  news  ?    'T  ain't  good,  or 

they  'd  be  cheerin'. 
Speak  slow   an'  clear,  for  I  'm  some 

hard  o'  hearin'. 

THE  MONIMENT. 

I  don't  know  hardly  ef  it 's  good  or 
bad, 

THE   BRIDGE. 

At  wust,  it  can't  be  wus  than  wut  we  '  ve 
had. 

THE  MONIMENT. 

You  know  them  envys  thet  the  Rebbles 

sent, 
An'   Cap'n  Wilkes   he  borried  o'  the 

Trent  ? 

THE  BRIDGE. 

Wut  !  they  ha'n't  hanged  'em?    Then 

their  wits  is  gone  ! 
Thet 's  the  sure  way  to  make  a  goose  a 

swan  I 

THE  MONIMENT. 

No :  England  she  would  hev  'em,  Fee, 

Paw,  Fum ! 
(Ez  though  she  hed  n't  fools  enough  to 

home,) 
So  they  've  returned  'em 

THE  BRIDGE. 

Hev  they?     Wal,  by  heaven, 
Thet 's  the  wust  news  I  've  heerd  sence 
Seventy-seven ! 


By  George,  I  meant  to  say,  though  I 

declare 
It 's  'most  enough  to  make  a  deacon 

swear. 

THE  MONIMENT. 

Now  don't  go  off  half-cock  :  folks  never 

gains 
By  usin'  pepper-sarse  instid  o'  brains 
Come,     neighbor,    you    don't    under- 
stand   

THE  BRIDGE. 

How?     Hey? 
Not  understand  ?    Why,  wut 's  to  ben- 
der, pray? 
Must  I  go  huntin'  round  to  find  a  chap 
To  tell  me  when   my  face  hez  hed  a 
slap  ? 

THE  MONIMENT. 

See  here  :  the  British  they  found  out  a 

flaw 
In  Cap'n  Wilkes's  readin'  o'  the  law: 
(They  make  all  laws,  you  know,  an'  so, 

o'  course, 
It 's  nateral    they    should    understan' 

their  force  :) 
He  'd  oughto  took  the  vessel  into  port, 
An'  hed  her  sot  on  by  a  reg'lar  court  ; 
She  was  a  mail-ship,  an'  a  steamer,  tu, 
An'   thet,    they  say,   hez  changed  the 

pint  o'  view, 
Coz  the  old  practice,  bein'  meant  for 

sails, 
Ef  tried  upon  a  steamer,  kind  o'  fails  : 
You  may  take  out  despatches,  but  you 

mus'  n't 
Take  nary  man 

THE  BRIDGE. 

You  mean  to  say,  you  dus'  n't  ! 
Changed  pint  o'  view !     No,  no,  —  it 's 

overboard 
With  law  an'  gospel,  when  their  ox  is 

gored  ! 
I  tell   ye,    England's  law,  on  sea   an* 

land, 
Hez  oilers  ben,  "  /  've  gitt  the  heaviest 

hand." 
Take  nary  man?    Fine  preachin' from 

her  lips  ! 
Why,  she  hez  taken  hunderds  from  >ai 

ships, 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


369 


An*  would  agin,  an'  swear  she  had  a 

right  to, 
Ef  we  warn't  strong  enough  to  be  per- 

lite  to. 
Of  all  the  sarse  thet  I  can  call  to  mind, 
England    doos    make    the     most    on- 
pleasant  kind  : 
It 's  you  're  the  sinner  oilers,  she  's  the 

saint ; 
Wut  's   good  's    all   English,    all   thet 

is  n't  ain't  ; 
Wut  profits  her  is  oilers  right  an'  just, 
An'  ef  you  don't  read  Scriptur  so,  you 

must  ; 
She  's  praised  herself  ontil   she  fairly 

thinks 
There  ain't  no  light  in  Natur  when  she 

winks  ; 
Hain't  she  the  Ten  Comman'ments  in 

her  pus  ? 
Could  the  world   stir  'thout  she  went, 

tu,  ez  nus? 
She  ain't  like  other  mortals,  thet 's  a 

fact : 
She  never  stopped  the  habus-corpus 

act, 
Nor  specie  payments,  nor  she  never  yet 
Cut  down  the  int'rest  on  her  public 

debt ; 
She  don't  put  down  rebellions,  lets  'em 

breed, 
An'    's    oilers    willin'   Ireland  should 

secede  : 
Sh»  's  all  thet 's  honest,  honnable,  an' 

fair, 
An'  when  the  vartoos  died  they  made 

her  heir. 

THE  MONIMENT. 

Wal,  wal,  two  wrongs  don't  never  make 

a  right  : 
Ef  we're  mistaken,  own  up,  an'  don't 

fight : 
For  gracious'  sake,  ha'n't  we  enough 

to  du 
•Thout  gettin'  up  a  fight  with  England, 

tu? 
6he  thinks  we  're  rabble-rid 

THE  BRIDGE. 

An'  so  we  can't 
.Distinguish  'twixt   You  ought  n't  an' 

Vousha'n't! 
*5he  jedges  by  herself;  she  's  no  idear 


How 't  stiddies  folks  to  give  'em  their 

fair  sheer : 
The  odds  'twixt  her  an'  us  is  plain  's  a 

steeple,  — 
Her  People  's  turned  to  Mob,  our  Mob 

's  turned  People. 

THE  MONIMENT. 

She  's  riled  jes'  now . 

THE  BRIDGE. 

Plain  proof  her  cause  ain't  strong,  — 
The  one  thet  fust  gits  mad  's  'most  oilers 

wrong. 
Why,  sence  she  helped  in  lickin'  Nap 

the  Fust, 
An'   pricked  a  bubble  jest  agoin'  to 

bust. 
With    Rooshy,    Prooshy,   Austry,    all 

asistin', 
Th'  aint  nut  a  face  but  wut  she  's  shook 

her  fist  in, 
Ez  though  she  done  it  all,  an'  ten  times 

more, 
An'  nothin'  never  hed  gut  done  afore, 
Nor  never  could  agin',  'thout  she  wuz 

spliced 
On  to  one  eend  an'  gin  th'  old  airth  a 

hoist. 
She  is  some  punkins,  thet  I  wun't  deny, 
(For  ain't  she  some  related  to  you  'n' 

I?) 
But  there  's  a  few  small   intrists  here 

below 
Outside  the  counter  o'  John  Bull  an' 

Co, 
An',  though  they  can't  conceit  how 't 

should  be  so, 
I  guess  the  Lord  druv  down  Creation's 

spiles 
'Thout  no  gret  helpin'  from  the  British 

Isles, 
An'  could  contrive  to  keep  things  pooty 

stiff 
Ef  thev  withdrawed  from  business  in  a 

miff; 
I  ha'n't  no  patience  with  sech  swellin' 

fellers  ez 
Think  God  can't  forge  'thout  them  to 

blow  the  bellerses. 

THE  MONIMENT. 

You  're  oilers  quick  to  set  your  back 
aridge,  — 


ajo 


THE  B 1 GLOW  PAPERS. 


Though  't  suits  a  tom-cat  more  'n  a 
sober  bridge : 

Don't  you  git  het :  they  thought  the 
thing  was  planned  ; 

They  '11  cool  off  when  they  come  to  un- 
derstand. 

THE  BRIDGE. 

JLitkefs  wut  you  expect,  you  '11  hev 

to  wait : 
Folks  never  understand  the  folks  they 

hate: 
She  '11  fin'  some  other  grievance  jest  ez 

good, 
'Fore  the  month  's  out,  to  git  misun- 
derstood. 
England  cool  off!     She  '11  do  it,  ef  she 

sees 
She  's  run  her  head  into  a  swarm  o' 

bees. 
I  ain't  so  prejudiced  ez  wut  you  spose  : 
I  hev  thought   England  was  the  best 

thet  goes ; 
Remember  (no,  you  can't),  when  /  was 

reared, 
God  save  the  King  was  all  the  tune  you 

heerd : 
But  it 's  enough  to  turn  Wachuset  roun', 
This  stumpin'  fellers  when   you  think 

they  're  down. 

THE   MONIMENT. 

But,  neighbor,  ef  they  prove  their  claim 

at  law, 
The  best  way  is  to  settle,  an'  not  jaw. 
An'  don't  le'  's  mutter  'bout  the  awfle 

bricks 
We  '11  give  'em,  ef  we  ketch  'em  in  a  fix  : 
That  'ere  's  most  frequently  the  kin'  o' 

talk 
Of  critters  can't  be  kicked  to  toe  the 

chalk  ; 
Your   "  You  Ml  see   nex1   time  !  "    an' 

"  Look  out  bumby  ! " 
Most  oilers  ends  in  eatin'  umble-pie. 
'Twun't  pay  to  scringe  to    England: 

will  it  pay 
To  fear  that  meaner  bully,  old  "  They  '11 

say"? 
Suppose  they  du  say :  words  are  dreffle 

bores, 
But  they  ain't  quite  so  bad  ez  seventy- 
fours. 
Wut  England  wants  is  jest  a  wedge  to  fit 


Where  it  '11  help  to  widen  out  our  split". 
She  's  found  her  wedge,  an'  't  ain't  for 

us  to  come 
An'  lend  the  beetle  thet 's  to  drive  it 

home. 
For  growed-up  folks  like  us  't  would  be 

a  scandle, 
When  we  git  sarsed,  to  fly  right  off  the 

handle. 
England  ain't  all  bad,  coz  she  thinks 

us  blind : 
Ef  she  can't  change  her  skin,  she  can 

her  mind ; 
An'  we  shall  see  her  change  it  double- 
quick, 
Soon    ez    we  've    proved    thet    we  're 

a-goin'  to  lick. 
She    an'    Columby's   gut    to    be    fas' 

friends ; 
For  the  world  prospers  by  their  privit 

ends : 
'T  would  put  the  clock  back  all  o'  fifty 

years, 
Ef  they  should  fall  together  by  the  ears. 

THE   BRIDGE. 

I  'gree  to  thet ;   she  s  nigh  us  to  wut 

France  is  ; 
But  then  she  '11  hev  to  make  the  fust 

advances ; 
We  've  gut  pride,  tu,  an'  gut  it  by  good 

rights, 
An'  ketch  me  stoopin'  to  pick  up  the 

mites 
O'  condescension  she  '11  be  lettin'  fall 
When  she  finds  out  we  ain't  dead  arter 

all! 
I  tell  ye  wut,  it  takes  more  'n  one  good 

week 
Afore  my  nose  forgits  it 's  hed  a  tweak. 

THE    MONIMENT. 

She  '11  come  out  right  bumby,  thet  I  '11 

engage, 
Soon  ez  she  gits  to  seein   we  re  of  age  ; 
This  talkin'  down  o'  hers  ain't  wuth  a 

fuss ; 
It 's  nat'ral  ez  nut  likin'  't  is  to  us  ; 
Ef  we  're  agoin'  to  prove  we  be  growed- 

'Twun't  be  by  barkin'  like  a  tamer 

PuP- 
But  tumin'   to  an'   makin'   things  ez 

good 


THE   BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


*7» 


Ez  wut  we  're  oilers  braggin'  that  we 

could  ; 
We  're  bound  to  be  good  friends,  an'  so 

we  'd  ouglito, 
In  spite  of  all  the  fools  both  sides  the 

water. 

THE    BRIDGE. 

I   b'lieve  thet  's  so  ;    but  hearken   in 

your  ear,  — 
I  'm  older  'n  you,  —  Peace  wun't  keep 

house  with  Fear : 
Ef  you  want  peace,  the  thing  you've 

gut  to  du 
Is  jes'  to  show  you  're  up  to  fightin',  tu. 
/  recollect  how  sailors'  rights  was  won 
Yard  locked  in  yard,  hot  gun-lip  kissin' 

gun: 
Why,  afore  thet,  John  Bull  sot  up  thet 

he 
Hed  gut  a  kind  o'  mortgage  on  the  sea  ; 
You  'd  thought  he  held  by  Gran'ther 

Adam's  will, 
An'  ef  you  knuckle  down,  he  '11  think 

so  still. 
Better  thet  all  our  ships  an'  all  their 

crews 
Should  sink  to  rot  in  ocean's  dreamless 

ooze, 
Each  torn  flag  wavin'  chellenge  ez  it 

went, 
An'   each   dumb   gun  a  brave   man's 

moniment, 
Than  seek  sech  peace  ez  only  cowards 

crave : 
Give  me  the  peace  of  dead  men  or  of 

brave  1 

THE    MONIMENT. 

I  say,  ole  boy,  it  ain't  the  Glorious 
Fourth : 

You  'd  oughto  lamed  'fore  this  wut  talk 
wuz  worth. 

It  ain't  oitr  nose  thet  gits  put  out  o'  jint ; 

It 's  England  thet  gives  up  her  dearest 
pint. 

We  've  gut,  I  tell  ye  now,  enough  to  du 

In  our  own  fem'ly  fight,  afore  we  're 
thru. 

I  hoped,  las'  spring,  jest  arter  Sumter's 
shame, 

When  every  flag-staff  flapped  its  teth- 
ered flam*, 


An'  all  the  people,  startled  from  their 

doubt, 
Come  must'rin'  to  the  flag  with  sech  a 

shout,  — 
I  hoped  to  see  things  settled  'fore  this 

fall. 
The  Rebbles  licked,  Jeff  Davis  hanged, 

an'  all ; 
Then  come   Bull   Run,  an'  sence   then 

I  've  ben  waitin' 
Like  boys  in  Jennooary  thaw  for  skatin', 
Nothin'  to  du  but  watch  my  shadder's 

trace 
Swing,  like  a  ship  at  anchor,  roun'  my 

base, 
With   daylight's   flood   an'   ebb :    it  's 

gittin'  slow, 
An'  I  'most  think  we  'd  better  let  'em 

go. 
I   tell   ye   wut,    this    war 's  a-goin   to 

cost 

THE    BRIDGE. 

An'  I  tell  you  it  wun't  be  money  lost ; 
Taxes  milks  dry,  but,  neighbor,  you  '11 

allow 
Thet  havin'  things  onsettled  kills  the 

cow : 
We  've  gut  to  fix  this  thing  for  good 

f  an'  all ; 
It  's  no  use  buildin'  wut 's  a-goin'  to 

fall. 
I  'm  older  'n  you,  an'  I  've  seen  things 

an'  men, 
An'  my  experunce,  —  tell  ye  wut  it  's 

ben  : 
Folks  thet  worked  thorough  was  the 

ones  thet  thriv, 
But  bad  work  follers  ye  ez  long's  ye 

live : 
You  can't  git  red  on  't ;  jest  ez  sure  ez 

sin, 
It 's  oilers  askin'  to  be  done  agin  : 
Ef  we  should  part,  it  would  n't  be   a 

week 
'Fore  your  soft-soddered  peace  would 

spring  aleak 
We  've  turned  our  cuffs  up,  but,  to  put 

her  thru, 
We  must  git  mad  an'  off  with  jackets, 

tn  ; 
'T  wun't  du  to  think  that  killin'  ain't 

perliu,  — 


272 


THE   B I  GLOW  PAPERS. 


You  've  gut  to  be  in   aimest,  ef  you 

fight  ; 
Why,  two-thirds  o'  the  Rebbles  'ould 

cut  dirt, 
Ef  they  once  thought  thet   Guv'ment 

meant  to  hurt  ; 
An'  1  du  wish  our  Gin'rals  hed  in  mind 
The  folks  in  front  more  than  the  folks 

behind  ; 
You  wun't  do  much  ontil  you  think  it 's 

God, 
An'  not  constitoounts,  thet  holds  the 

rod : 
We  want  some  more  o'  Gideon's  sword, 

I  jedge, 
For  proclamations  ha'n't  no  gret  of 

edge ; 
There  's  nothin'  for  a  cancer  but  the 

knife, 
Onless  you  set  by  't  more  than  by  your 

life. 
I've  seen  hard  times ;  I  see  a  war  be- 
gun 
Thet  folks  thet  love  their  bellies  never  'd 

won  ; 
Pharo's  lean  kine  hung  on  for  seven 

long  year ; 
But  when  't  was  done,  we  did  n't  count 

it  dear. 
Why,  law  an'  order,  honor,  civil  right, 
Ef  they  ain't  wuth  it,  wut  is  wuth  a 

fight? 
I  'm  older  'n  you  :  the  plough,  the  axe, 

the  mill, 
All  kin's  o'  labor  an'  all  kin's  o'  skill, 
Would  be  a  rabbit  in  a  wile-cat's  claw, 
Eft  warn't  for  thet  slow  critter,  'stab- 

lished  law  ; 
Onsettle  thet,  an'  all  the  world  goes 

whiz, 
A  screw 's  gut  loose  in  everythin'  there 

is  : 
Good  buttresses  once  settled,  don't  you 

fret 
An'  stir  'em  ;  take  a  bridge's  word  for 

thet  ! 
Young   folks  are  smart,  but  all  ain't 

good  thet 's  new  : 
I   guess  the  gran'thers  they  knowed 

sunthin',  tu. 

THE    MONIMENT. 

Amen  to  thet  1  build  sure  in  the  begin- 
nin', 


An'  then  don't  never  tech  the  under- 

pinnin'  : 
Th'  older  a  guv'ment  is,  the  better  't 

suits  ; 
New  ones  hunt  folks's  corns  out  like 

new  boots  : 
Change  jes'  for  change,  is  like  them  big 

hotels 
Where  they  shift  plates,  an'  let  ye  live 

on  smells. 


THE  BRIDGE. 

Wal,  don't  give  up  afore  the  ship  goes 

down  : 
It 's  a  stiff  gale,  but  Providence  wun't 

drown  ; 
An'  God  wun't  leave  us  yit  to  sink  or 

swim, 
Ef  we  don't  fail  to  du  wut 's  right  by 

Him. 
This  land  o'  oum,  I  tell  ye,  's  gut  to  be 
A  better  country  than  man  ever  see. 
I  feel  my  sperit  swellin'  with  a  cry 
Thet  seems  to  say,  "  Break  forth  an' 

prophesy !  " 
O  strange  New  World,  thet  yit  wast 

never  young, 
Whose  youth  from  thee  bygripin'  need 

was  wrung, 
Brown  foundhn'  o'  the  woods,  whose 

baby-bed 
Was  prowled  roun'  by  the  Injun's  crack- 

lin'  tread, 
An'  who  grew'st  strong  thru  shifts  an' 

wants  an'  pains, 
Nussed  by  stern  men  with  empires  in 

their  brains, 
Who  saw  in  vision  their  young  Ishmel 

strain 
With  each  hard  hand  a  vassal  ocean's 

mane. 
Thou,  skilled  by  Freedom  an'  by  gret 

events 
To  pitch  new  States  ez  Old- World  men 

pitch  tents, 
Thou,  taught  by  Fate  to  know  Jeho- 
vah's plan 
Thet  man's  devices  can't  unmake  a 

man. 
An'  whose  free  latch-string  never  was 

drawed  in 
Against  the  poorest  child  of  Adam's 

kin,  — 


THE   BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


»73 


The    grave 's  not   dug  where    traitor 

hands  shall  lay 
In  fearful    haste   thy   murdered   corse 

away  ! 
I  see 

Jest  here  some  dogs  be- 
gun to  bark, 

So  thet  I  lost  old  Concord's  last  re- 
mark : 

I  listened  long,  but  all  I  seemed  to 
hear 

Was  dead  leaves  goss'pin'  on  some 
birch-trees  near; 

But  ez  they  hed  n't  no  gret  things  to 
say. 

An'  sed  'em  often,  I  come  right  away, 

An',  walkin'  home'ards,  jest  to  pass  the 
time, 

I  put  some  thoughts  thet  bothered  me 
in  rhyme  ; 

I  hain't  hed  time  to  fairly  try  'em  on, 

But  here  they  be — it  's 


JONATHAN  TO  JOHN. 

It  don't  seem  hardly  right,  John, 

When  both  my  hands  was  full, 
To  stump  me  to  a  fight,  John,  — 
Your  cousin,  tu,  John  Bull ! 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess 
We  know  it  now,"  sez  he, 
"  The  lion's  paw  is  all  the  law, 
Accordin'  to  J.  B., 
Thet  's  fit  for  you  an'  me  !  " 

You  wonder  why  we  're  hot,  John  ? 

Your  mark  wuz  on  the  guns, 
The  neutral  guns,  thet  shot,  John, 
Our  brothers  an'  our  sons  : 
Ole  Uncle  S   sez  he,  "  I  guess 
There  's  human  blood,"  sez  he, 
"  By  fits  an'  starts,  in  Yankee  hearts, 
Though  't  may  surprise  J.  B. 
More  'n  it  would  you  an'  me." 

Ef  /  turned  mad  dogs  loose,  John, 

On  your  front-parlor  stairs, 
Would  it  jest  meet  your  views,  John, 
To  wait  an'  sue  their  heirs? 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess, 
I  on'y  guess,"  sez  he, 
"  Thet  ef  Vattel  on  his  toes  fell, 
18 


'T  would  kind  o'  rile  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me  !  " 

Who  made  the  law  thet  hurts,  John, 

Heads  I  "win,  —  ditto  tails  ? 
"  J.  B."  was  on  his  shirts,  John, 
Onless  my  memory  fails, 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess, 
(1  'm  good  at  thet),"  sez  he, 
"  Thet  sauce  for  goose  ain't  jest  the 
juice 
For  ganders  with  J.  B., 
No  more  than  you  or  me  !  " 

When    your  rights  was  our  wrongs, 
John, 
You  did  n't  stop  for  fuss,  — 
Britanny's  trident  prongs,  John, 
Was  good  'nough  law  for  us. 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess, 
Though  physic's  good,"  sez  he, 
"  It  doesn't  foller  thet  he  can  swaller 
Prescriptions  signed  '  J.  B.,' 
Put  up  by  you  an'  me  !  " 

We  own  the  ocean,  tu,  John  : 

You  mus'  n'  take  it  hard, 
Ef  we  can't  think  with  you,  John, 

It 's  jest  your  own  back-yard. 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess, 

Ef  thet  's  his  claim,"  sez  he, 
"The  fencin'-stuff  '11  cost  enough 
To  bust  up  friend  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me  ! " 

Why  talk  so  dreffle  big,  John, 

Of  honor  when  it  meant 
You  didn't  care  a  fig,  John, 
But  jest  for  ten  per  cent  ? 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess 
He  's  like  the  rest,"  sez  he : 
"  When  all  is  done,  it 's  number  one 
Thet 's  nearest  to  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me  !  " 

We  give  the  critters  back,  John, 

Cos  Abram  thought 't  was  right ; 
It  warn't  your  bullyin'  clack,  John, 
Provokin'  us  to  fight. 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess 
We  've  a  hard  row,"  sez  he, 
"  To  hoe  jest  now  ;  but  thet  somehow. 
May  happen  to  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  m«  1  " 


274 


THE   BIGLGW  PAPERS. 


We  ain't  so  weak  an'  poor,  John, 

With  twenty  million  people, 
An'  close  to  every  door,  John, 
A  school-house  an'  a  steeple. 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess 
It  is  a  fact,"  sez  he, 
"The  surest  plan  to  make  a  Man 
Is,  think  him  so,  J.  B., 
Ez  much  ez  you  or  me  !  " 

Our  folks  believe  in  Law,  John  ; 

An'  it 's  for  her  sake,  now, 
They  've  left  the  axe  an'  saw,  John, 
The  anvil  an'  the  plough. 

Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess, 
Eft  warn't  for  law,"  sez  he, 
"  There  'd  be  one  shindy  from  here  to 
Indy ; 
An'thet  don't  suit  J.  B. 
(When 't  ain't  'twixt  you  an'  me  !/' 

We  know  we  've  got  a  cause,  John, 

Thet  's  honest,  just,  an'  true  ; 
We    thought 't  would    win    applause, 
John, 
Ef  nowheres  else,  from  you. 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess 
His  love  of  right,"  sez  he, 
"  Hangs  by  a  rotten  fibre  o'  cotton  : 
There's  natur'  in  J.  B.,( 
Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me  !  " 

The   South  says,  Poor  folks  down  !  " 
John, 
An'  "  A 11  men  tip !  "  say  we,  — 
White,  yaller,  black,  an'  brown,  John  : 
Now  which  is  your  idee? 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess, 
John  preaches  wal,"  sez  he  ; 
"  But,  sermon  thru,  an'  come  to  du, 
Why,  there  's  the  old  J.  B. 
A  crowdin'  you  an'  me  !  " 

Shall  it  be  love,  or  hate,  John? 

It 's  you  thet 's  to  decide  ; 
Ain't  your  bonds  held  by  Fate,  John, 
Like  all  the  world's  beside  ? 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess 
Wise  men  forgive,"  sez  he, 
"  But  not  forget ;  an'  some  time  yet 
Thet  truth  may  strike  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me  !  " 

God  means  to  make  this  land,  John, 
Clear  thru,  from  sea  to  sea, 


Believe  an'  understand,  John, 
The  wuth  o'  bein'  free. 

Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess, 

God's  price  is  high,"  sez  he  ; 
"  But  nothin'  else  than  wut  He  sells 

Wears  long,  an'  thet  J.  B. 

May  lam,  like  you  an'  me  ! " 


No.  III. 

BIRDOFREDUM   SAWIN,  ESQ., 
TO  MR.  HOSEA  BIGLOW. 

With  the  following  Letter  from  the 
Reverend  Homer  Wilbur,  A.  M. 

TO  THE  EDITORS  OF  THE  ATLANTIC 
MONTHLY. 

JAALAM,  7th  Feb.,  1862. 

Respected  Friends,  —  If  I  know 
myself,  — and  surely  a  man  can  hardly 
be  supposed  to  have  overpassed  the 
limit  of  fourscore  years  without  attain- 
ing to  some  proficiency  in  that  most 
useful  branch  of  learning  (e  ccelo  de- 
scendit,  says  the  pagan  poet),  —  I  have 
no  great  smack  of  that  weakness  which 
would  press  upon  the  publick  attention 
any  matter  pertaining  to  my  private 
affairs.  But  since  the  following  letter 
of  Mr.  Sawin  contains  not  only  a  direct 
allusion  to  myself,  but  that  in  connection 
with  a  topick  of  interest  to  all  those  en- 
gaged in  the  publick  ministrations  of 
the  sanctuary,  I  may  be  pardoned  for 
touching  briefly  thereupon.  Mr.  Sawin 
was  never  a  stated  attendant  upon  my 
preaching,  —  never,  as  I  believe,  even 
an  occasional  one,  since  the  erection  of 
the  new  house  (where  we  now  worship) 
in  1845.  He  did,  indeed,  for  a  time, 
supply  a  not  unacceptable  bass  in  the 
choir  ;  but,  whether  on  some  umbrage 
(omnibus  hoc  vitium  est  cantoribus) 
taken  against  the  bass-viol,  then,  and 
till  his  decease  in  1850  (<^.  77,)  under 
the  charge  of  Mr.  Asaph  Perley,  or,  as 
was  reported  by  others,  on  account  of 
an  imminent  subscription  for  a  new 
bell,  he  thenceforth   absents   /wmE_H 


THE   B I  GLOW  PAPERS. 


275 


from  all  outward  and  visible  communion. 
Yet  he  seems  to  have  preserved  (a/t<i 
tnente  repostum),  as  it  were,  in  the 
pickle  of  a  mind  soured  by  prejudice, 
a  lasting  samiu-r,  as  he  would  call  it, 
against  our  staid  and  decent  form  of 
worship  ;  for  I  would  rather  in  that  wise 
interpret  his  fling,  than  suppose  that 
any  chance  tares  sown  by  my  pulpit 
discourses  should  survive  so  long,  while 
good  seed  too  often  tails  to  root  itself. 
1  humbly  trust  that  I  have  no  personal 
feeling  in  the  matter  ;  though  I  know 
that,  if  we  sound  any  man  deep  enough, 
our  lead  shall  bring  up  the  mud  of 
human  nature  at  last.  The  Bretons 
believe  in  an  evil  spirit  which  they  call 
arc'hcniskezik,  wjtose  office  it  is  to  make 
the  congregation  drowsy  ;  and  though 
I  have  never  had  reason  to  think  that 
he  was  specially  busy  among  my  flock, 
yet  have  1  seen  enough  to  make  me 
sometimes  regret  the  hinged  seats  of 
the  ancient  meeting-house,  whose  lively 
clatter,  not  unwillingly  intensified  by 
boys  beyond  eyeshot  of  the  tithing- 
man,  served  at  intervals  as  a  wholesome 
reveil.  It  is  true,  I  have  numbered 
among  my  parishioners  some  who  are 
proof  against  the  prophylactick  fennel, 
nay,  whose  gift  of  somno'-ence  rivalled 
that  of  the  Cretan  Rip  Van  Winkle, 
Epimenides,  and  who,  nevertheless, 
complained  not  so  much  of  the  sub- 
stance as  of  the  length  of  my  (by  them 
unheard)  discourses.  Some  ingenious 
persons  of  a  philosophick  turn  have  as- 
sured us  that  our  pulpits  were  set  too 
high,  and  that  the  soporifick  tendency 
increased  with  the  ratio  of  the  angle  in 
which  the  hearer's  eye  was  constrained 
to  seek  the  preacher.  This  were  a 
curious  topick  for  investigation.  There 
can  be  no  doubt  that  some  sermons  are 
pitched  too  high,  and  I  remember  many 
struggles  with  the  drowsy  fiend  in  my 
youth.  Happy  Saint  Anthony  of  Padua, 
whose  finny  acolytes,  however  they 
might  profit,  could  never  murmur ! 
Quare  fremiirrunt  gentes  ?  Who  is 
he  that  can  twice  a  week  be  inspired, 
or  has  eloquence  (ut  ita  dicum)  always 
on  tap?  A  good  man,  and,  next  to 
David,  a  sacred  poet  (himself,  haply. 


not  inexpert  of  evil  in  this  particular), 
has  said,  — 

"The  worst  speak  something  good:   if  all 
want  sense, 
God  takes  a  text  and  preacheth  patience." 

There  are  one  or  two  other  points  in 
Mr.  Sawin's  letter  which  1  would  also 
briefly  animadvert  upon.  And  first, 
concerning  the  claim  he  sets  up  to  a 
certain  superiority  of  blood  and  lineage 
in  the  people  of  our  Southern  States, 
now  unhappily  in  rebellion  against  law- 
ful authority  and  their  own  better  inter- 
ests. There  is  a  sort  of  opinions,  an- 
achronisms at  once  and  anachorisms, 
foreign  both  to  the  age  and  the  coun- 
try, that  maintain  a  feeble  and  buzzing 
existence,  scarce  to  be  cailed  life,  like 
winter  flies,  which  in  mild  weather 
crawl  out  from  obscure  nooks  and  cran- 
nies to  expatiate  in  the  sun,  and  some- 
times acquire  vigor  enough  to  disturb 
with  their  enforced  familiarity  the  stu- 
dious hours  of  the  scholar.  One  of  the 
most  stupid  and  pertinacious  of  these 
is  the  theory  that  the  Southern  States 
were  settled  by  a  cla  s  of  emigrants 
from  the  Old  World  socially  superior 
to  those  who  founded  the  institutions 
of  New  England.  The  Virginians  es- 
pecially lay  claim  to  this  generosity  of 
lineage,  which  were  of  no  possible  ac- 
count, were  it  not  for  the  fact  that  such 
superstitions  are  sometimes  not  without 
their  effect  on  the  course  of  human  af- 
fairs. The  early  adventurers  to  Massa- 
chusetts at  least  paid  their  passages  ; 
no  felons  were  ever  shipped  thither ; 
and  though  it  be  true  that  many  de- 
boshed  younger  brothers  of  what  are 
called  good  families  may  have  sought 
refuge  in  Virginia,  it  is  equally  certain 
that  a  great  part  of  the  early  deporta- 
tions thither  were  the  sweepings  of  the 
London  streets  and  the  leavings  of  the 
London  stews.  It  was  this  my  Lord 
Bacon  had  in  mind  when  he  wrote  : 
"  It  is  a  shameful  and  unblessed  thing 
to  take  the  scum  of  people  and  wicked 
condemned  men  to  be  the  people  with 
whom  you  plant."  That  certain  names 
are  found  there  is  nothing  to  the  pur- 
pose, for,  even  had  an  alias  been  be- 
yond the  invention  of  the  knaves  of 


276 


THE    BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


that  generation,  it  is  known  that  ser- 
vants were  often  called  by  their  mas- 
ters' names,  a»  slaves  are  now.  On 
what  the  heralds  call  the  spind.e  side, 
some,  at  least,  of  the  oldest  Virginian 
families  are  descended  from  matrons 
who  were  exported  and  sold  lor  so 
many  hogsheads  of  tobacco  the  head. 
So  notorious  was  this,  that  it  became 
one  of  the  jokes  of  contemporary  play- 
wrights, not  only  that  men  bankrupt  in 
purse  and  character  were  "food  for  the 
Plantations  "  (and  this  before  the  set- 
tlement ot  New  England),  but  also  that 
any  drab  would  suffice  to  wive  such  piti- 
ful adventurers.  "  Never  choose  a 
wife  as  if  you  were  going  to  Virginia," 
says  Middleton  in  one  of  his  comedies. 
The  mule  is  apt  to  forget  all  but  the 
equine  side  of  his  pedigree.  How  early 
the  counterfeit  nobility  of  the  Old  Do- 
minion became  a  topick  of  ridicule  in  the 
Mother  Country  may  be  learned  from  a 
play  of  Mrs.  Behn's,  founded  on  the 
Rebellion  of  Bacon :  for  even  these 
kennels  of  literature  may  yield  a  fact 
or  two  to  pay  the  raking.  Mrs.  Flirt, 
the  keeper  of  a  Virginia  ordinary,  calls 
herself  the  daughter  of  a  baronet  "un- 
done in  the  late  rebellion,"  —  her  fa- 
ther having  in  truth  been  a  tailor,  — 
and  three  of  the  Council,  assuming  to 
themselves  an  equal  splendour  of  origin, 
are  shown  to  have  been,  one  "a  broken 
exciseman  who  came  over  a  poor  ser- 
vant," another  a  tinker  transported  for 
theft,  and  the  third  "a  common  pick- 
pocket often  flogged  at  the  cart's  tail." 
The  ancestry  of  South  Carolina  will  as 
little  pass  muster  at  the  Herald's  Visi- 
tation, though  I  hold  them  to  have  been 
more  reputable,  inasmuch  as  many  of 
them  were  honest  tradesmen  and  arti- 
sans, in  some  measure  exiles  for  con- 
science' sake,  who  would  have  smiled 
at  the  high-flying  nonsense  of  their  de- 
scendants. Some  of  the  more  respect- 
able were  Jews.  The  absurdity  of  sup- 
posing a  population  of  eight  millions  all 
sprung  from  gentle  loins  ir.  the  course 
of  a  century  and  a  half  is  too  manifest 
for  confutation.  But  of  what  use  to 
discuss  the  matter?  An  expert  geneal- 
ogist will  provide  any  solvent  man  with 


a  genus  et  proavos  to  order.  My  Lcrd 
Burleigh  said  that  "  nobil'ty  was  an- 
cient riches,"  whence  also  the  Spanish 
were  wont  to  call  their  nobles  ricoi 
hotnbres,  and  the  aristocracy  of  Amer- 
ica are  the  descendants  of  those  who 
first  became  wealthy,  by  whatever 
means.  Petroleum  will  in  this  wise  be 
tin-  scurce  of  much  good  blood  among 
our  posterity.  The  aristocracy  of  the 
South,  such  as  it  is,  has  the  shallowest 
of  all  foundations,  for  it  is  only  skin- 
deep,  —  the  most  odious  of  all,  for, 
while  affecting  to  despise  trade,  it  traces 
its  origin  to  a  successful  trafifick  in  men, 
women,  and  children,  and  still  draws 
its  chief  revenues  thence.  And  though, 
as  Doctor  Chamberlayne  consolinglv 
says  in  his  Present  Slate  of  England, 
"  to  become  a  Merchant  of  Foreign 
Commerce,  without  serving  any  Ap- 
prentisage,  hath  been  allowed  no  dis- 
paragement to  a  Gentleman  born,  espe- 
cially to  a  younger  Brother,"  yet  I  con- 
ceive that  he  would  hardly  have  made  a 
like  exception  in  favour  of  the  particular 
trade  in  question.  Oddly  enough  this 
trade  reverses  the  ordinary  standards 
of  social  respectability  no  less  than  of 
morals,  for  the  retail  and  domestick  is  as 
creditable  as  the  wholesale  and  foreign 
is  degrading  to  him  who  follows  it. 
Are  our  morals,  then,  no  better  than 
mores  after  all?  I  do  not  believe  that 
such  aristocracy  as  exists  at  the  South 
(for  I  hold  with  Marius,  fortissimum 
quemqne  generosissimum)  will  be 
found  an  element  of  anything  like  per- 
sistent strength  in  war,  —  thinking  the 
saying  of  Lord  Bacon  (whom  one 
quaintly  called  inductionis  dominus  et 
Verulamii)  as  true  as  it  is  pithy,  that 
"  the  more  gentlemen,  ever  the  more 
books  of  subsidies."  It  is  odd  enough 
as  an  historical  precedent,  that,  while 
the  fathers  of  New  England  were  lay- 
ing deep  in  religion,  education,  and 
freedom  the  basis  of  a  polity  which 
has  substantially  outlasted  any  then 
existing,  the  first  work  of  the  founders 
of  Virginia,  as  may  be  seen  in  Wing- 
field's  Memorial,  was  conspiracy  and 
rebellion,  —  odder  yet,  as  showing  tha 
changes  which  are  wrought  by  circurn- 


THE   BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


'77 


stance,  that  the  first  insurrection  in 
South  Carolina  was  against  the  aristo- 
crancal  scheme  of  the  Proprietary  Gov- 
ernment. I  do  not  find  that  the  cutic- 
ular  aristocracy  of  the  South  has  added 
anything  to  the  refinements  of  civiliza- 
tion except  the  carrying  of  bowie- 
knives  and  the  chewing  of  tobacco,  — 
a  high-toned  Southern  gentleman  be- 
ing commonly  not  only  guadrumanous, 
but  quidruminant. 

I  confess  that  the  present  letter  of 
Mr.  Sawin  increases  my  doubts  as  to 
the  sincerity  of  the  convictions  which 
he  professes,  and  I  am  inclined  to  think 
that  the  triumph  of  the  legitimate  Gov- 
ernment, sure  sooner  or  later  to  take 
place,  will  find  him  and  a  large  major- 
ity of  his  newly  adopted  fellow-citizens 
(who  hold  with  Dsdalus,  the  primal 
sitter-on-the-fence,  that  medium  tenere 
tutissimum)  original  Union  men.  The 
criticisms  towards  the  close  of  his  letter 
on  certain  of  our  failings  are  worthy  to 
be  seriously  perpended;  for  he  is  not, 
as  I  think,  without  a  spice  of  vulgar 
shrewdness.  Fas  est  et  ab  hoste  doceri : 
there  is  no  reckoning  without  your  host. 
As  to  the  good-nature  in  us  which  he 
seems  to  gird  at,  while  I  would  not 
consecrate  a  chapel,  as  they  have  not 
scrupled  to  do  in  France,  to  Notre 
Dame  de la  Maine  (Our  Ladyof  Hate), 
yet  I  cannot  forget  that  the  corruption 
of  good-nature  is  the  generation  of  lax- 
ity of  principle.  Good-nature  is  our 
national  characteristick  ;  and  though  it 
be,  perhaps,  nothing  more  than  a  cul- 
pable weakness  or  cowardice,  when  it 
leads  us  to  put  up  tamely  with  mani- 
fold impositions  and  breaches  of  im- 
plied contracts,  (as  too  frequently  in 
our  publick  conveyances,)  it  becomes  a 
positive  crime,  when  it  leads  us  to  look 
unresentfully  on  peculation,  and  to  re- 
gard treason  to  the  best  Government 
that  ever  existed  as  something  with 
which  a  gentleman  may  shake  hands 
without  soiling  his  fingers.  I  do  not 
think  the  gallows-tree  the  most  profita- 
ble member  of  our  Sylva;  but,  since  it 
continues  to  be  planted,  I  would  fain 
see  a  Northern  limb  ingrafted  on  it, 
that  it  may  bear  some  other  fruit  than 
loyal  Tennesseeans. 


A  relick  has  recently  been  discovered 
on  the  east  bank  of  Bushy  Brook  in 
North  Jaalam,  which  I  conceive  to  be 
an  inscription  in  Runick  characters 
relating  to  the  early  expedition  of  tha 
Northmen  to  this  continent.  1  shall 
make  fuller  investigations,  and  commu- 
nicate the  result  in  due  season. 

Respectfully, 

Your  obedient  servant, 

Homer  Wilbur,  A.  M. 

P.  S.  —  I  inclose  a  year's  subscrip- 
tion from  Deacon  Tinkham. 


I  hed  it  on  my  min'  las'  time,  when  I 

to  write  ye  started, 
To  tech  the  leadin'  featurs  o'  mygittin' 

me  convarted  ; 
But,  ez  my  letters  hez  to  go  clearn  roun' 

by  way  o'  Cuby, 
'T  wun't  seem  no  staler  now  than  then, 

by  th'  time  it  gits  where  you  be. 
You  know  up  North,  though  sees  an' 

things  air  plenty  ez  you  please, 
Ther'  warn't  nut  one  on  'em  thet  come 

jes'  square  with  my  idees  : 
They  all  on  'em  wuz  too  much  mixed 

with  Covenants  o'  Works, 
An'  would  hev  answered  jest  ez  wal  for 

Afrikins  an'  Turks, 
Fer  where  's  a  Christian's  privilige  an' 

his  rewards  ensuin', 
Eft  ain't  perfessin'  right  an  eend  'thout 

nary  need  o'  doin'? 
I  dessay  they   suit   workin'-folks  thet 

ain't  noways  pertie'lar, 
But  nut  your  Southun  gen'leman  thet 

keeps  his  parpendie'lar  ; 
I  don't  blame  nary  man  thet  casts  his 

lot  along  o'  his  folks, 
But  ef  you  cal'late  to  save  me,  't  must 

be  with  folks  thet  is  folks  ; 
Cov'nants  o'  works  go  'ginst  my  grain, 

but  down  here  I  've  found  on. 
The  true  fus'-fem'ly  A  i  plan,  —  here's 

how  it  come  about. 
When  I  fus'  sot  up  with  Miss  S..  sez  she 

to  me,  sez  she, 
"  Without   you   git   religion,    Sir,    the 

thing  can't  never  be  ; 
Nut  but  wut  I  *especk,"  sez  she,  "youi 

intellectle  part, 
But  you  wun'»  now?ys  du  for  me  athout 

a  change  o'  heart." 


378 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


Nothun  religion  works  wal  North,  but 

it 's  ez  soft  ez  spruce, 
Compared  to  ourn,  for  keepin'  sound," 

sez  she,  "  upon  the  j;oose  ; 
A  day's  experunce  'd  prove  to  ye,  ez 

easy  'z  pull  a  trigger. 
It  takes  the  Southun  pint  o'  view  to 

raise  ten  bales  a  nigger  ; 
You  '11  fin'  thet  human  natur,   South, 

ain't  wholesome  more  'n  skin-deep, 
An'  once  't  a  darkie  's  took  with  it,  he 

wun't  be  wuth  his  keep." 
"HowsW/  I  git  it,  Ma'am?"  sez  I. 

"Attend  the  nex'  camp-meetin'," 
Sez  she,  "  an'  it  '11  come  to  ye  ez  cheap 

ez  onbleached  sheetin'." 


Wal,  so  I  went  along  an'  heam  most 

an  impressive  sarmon 
About  besprinklin'  Afriky  with  fourth- 
proof  dew  o'  Harmon  : 
He  did  n'  put  no  weaknin'  in,  but  gin  it 

tu  us  hot, 
'Z  ef  he  an'  Satan  'd  ben  two  bulk  in 

one  five-acre  lot  : 
I  don't  purtend  to  foller  him,  but  give 

ye  jes'  the  heads  ; 
For  pulpit  ellerkence,  you  know,  'most 

oilers  kin'  o'  spreads. 
Ham's  seed  wuz  gin  to  us  in  chairge, 

an'  shouldn't  we  be  li'ble 
In    Kingdom  Come,   ef  we  kep'  back 

their  priv'lege  in  the  Bible  ? 
The  cusses  an'  the  promerses  make  one 

gret  chain,  an'  ef 
You  snake  one  link  out  here,  one  there, 

how  much  on  't  ud  be  lef '  ? 
All  things  wuz  gin  to  man  for  's  use, 

his  sarvice,  an'  delight  ; 
An'  don't  the  Greek  an'  Hebrew  words 

thet  mean  a  Man  mean  White  ? 
Ain't  it  belittlin'  the  Good  Book  in  all 

its  proudes'  featurs 
To   think 't  wuz   wrote  for  black   an' 

brown  an'  'lasses-colored  creaturs, 
Thet  could  n'  read  it,  ef  they  would,  nor 

ain't  by  lor  allowed  to, 
But  ough'  to  take  wut  we  think  suits 

their  naturs,  an'  be  proud  to? 
Warn't  it  more  proftable  to  bring  your 

raw  materil  thru 
Where  you  can  work  it  inta  grace  an' 

inta  cotton  tu, 


Than   sendin'   missionaries  out  where 

fevers  might  defeat  'em, 
An'  ef  the   butcher  did  n'   call,   their 

p'rishioners  might  eat  'em? 
An'  then,  agin,  wut  airthly  use?     Nor 

't  warn't  our  fault,  in  so  fur 
Ez   Yankee   skipper*   would   keep   on 

a-totin'  on  'em  over. 
'T  improved  the  whites  by  savin'  'em 

from  ary  need  o'  wurkin', 
An'  kep'  the  blacks  from  bein'  lost  thru 

idleness  an'  shirkin'  ; 
We  took  to  'em  ez  nat'ral  ez  a  barn-owl 

doos  to  mice, 
An'  lied  our  hull  time  on  our  hands  to 

keep  us  out  o'  vice  ; 
It  made  us  feel  ez  pop'lar  ez  a  hen  doos 

with  one  chicken, 
An'  fill  our  place  in  Natur's  scale  by 

givin'  'em  a  lickin' : 
For  why  should   Caesar  git   his   dues 

more  'n  Juno,  Pomp,  an'  Cuffy  ? 
It's  justifyin'  Ham  to  spare  a  nigger 

when  he  's  stuffy. 
Where  'd    their   soles    go   tu,    like   to 

know,  ef  we  should  let  'em  ketch 
Freeknowledgism  an'    Fourierism   an' 

Speritoolism  an'  sech  ? 
When    Satan  sets  himself  to  work  to 

raise  his  very  bes'  muss, 
He    scatters  roun'   onscriptur'l  views 

relatin'  to  Ones'mus. 
You  'd  ough'  to  seen,  though,  how  his 

facs  an'  argymunce  an'  figgers 
Drawed  tears  o'  real  conviction  from  a 

lot  o'  pen'tent  niggers  ! 
It  warn't  like  Wilbur's  meetin',  where 

you  're  shet  up  in  a  pew, 
Your  dickeys  sorrin'  off  your  ears,  an' 

bilin'  to  be  thru  ; 
Ther'  wuz  a  tent  clost  by  thet  hed  a 

kag  o'  sunthin'  in  it, 
Where  you  could  go,  ef  you  wuz  dry, 

an'  damp  ye  in  a  minute  ; 
An'  ef  you  did  dror  off  a  spell,   ther 

wuz  n't  no  occasion 
To  lose  the  thread,  because,  ye  see,  he 

bellered  like  all  Bashan. 
It 's  dry  work  follerin'  argymunce  an' 

so,  'twix'  this  an'  thet, 
I  felt  conviction  weighin'  down  some- 
how inside  my  hat  : 
It    growed   an'   growed   like    Jonah's 

gourd,  a  kin'  o'  whirlin'  ketched  me, 


THE   B1GL01V  PAPERS. 


27.J 


Ontil  I  fin'hy  clean  giv  out  an'  owned 
up  thet  he  'd  fetched  me  ; 

An'  when  nine  tenths  o'  th'  perrish  took 
to  tumblin'  roun'  an' hollerui', 

I  did  n'  fin'  no  gret  in  th'  way  o'  turn- 
in'  tu  an'  follerin'. 

Soon  ez  Miss  S.  see  thet,  sez  she, 
"  Thet's  wut  I  call  wuth  seein'  ! 

Thet 's  actin'  like  a  reas'nable  an'  in- 
tellectle  bein  '  !  " 

An'  so  we  fin'llymade  it  up,  concluded 
to  hitch  hosses, 

An'  here  I  be  'n  my  ellermunt  among 
creation's  bosses  ; 

Arter  I  'd  drawed  sech  heaps  o'  blanks, 
Fortin  at  last  hez  sent  a  prize, 

An'  chose  me  for  a  shinin'  light  o'  mis- 
sionary entaprise. 


This    leads    me    to    another   pint  on 

which  I  've  changed  my  plan 
O'  thinkin'  so 's 't  I  might  become  a 

straight-out  Southun  man. 
Miss  S.  (her  maiden  name  wuz  Higgs, 

o'  the  fus'  fem'ly  here) 
On  her  Ma's  side  's  all  Juggernot,  on 

Pa's  all  Cavileer, 
An'   sence  I  've  merried  into  her  an' 

stept  into  her  shoes, 
It  ain't  more  'n  nateral  thet  I  should 

modderfy  my  views  : 
I  've  ben  a-readin'  in  Debow  ontil  I  've 

fairly  gut 
So  'nlightened  thet  I  'd  full   ez  lives 

ha'  ben  a  Dook  ez  nut ; 
An'  when  we  've  laid   ye  all  out  stiff, 

an'  Jeff  hez  gut  his  crown, 
An'  comes   to   pick    his    nobles    out, 

ivun't  this  child  be  in  town  ! 
We  '11  hev  an  Age  o'  Chivverlry  sur- 

passin'  Mister  Burke's, 
Where   every   fem'ly  is  fus'-best    an' 

nary  white  man  works  : 
Our  system  's  sech,  the  thing  '11  root  ez 

easy  ez  a  tater  ; 
For  while   your  lords  in  furrin  parts 

ain't  noways  marked  by  natur', 
Nor  sot   apart    from    ornery   folks  in 

featurs  nor  in  figgers, 
Ef  ourn  '11   keep  their  faces  washed, 

you  '11  know  'em  from  their  niggers. 
Ain't  sech  things  wuth  secedin'  for,  an' 

gittin' 


Thet  waller  in  your  low  idees,  an'  will 

till  all  is  blue? 
Fact  is,  we  air  a  difTrent  race,  an'  I, 

lor  one,  don't  see, 
Sech  havin'  oilers  ben  the  case,  how 

w'  ever  did  agree. 
It's  sunthin'  thet  you  lab'rin'-folks  up 

North  hed  ough'  to  think  on, 
Thet  Higgses  can't  bemean  themselves 

to  ruhn'  by  a  Lincoln,  — 
Thet  men,  (an'  guv'nors,  tu,    thet  hez 

sech  Normal  names  ez  Pickens, 
Accustomed  to  no  kin'  o'  work,  'thout 

't  is  to  givin'  lickins, 
Can't  masure  votes  with  folks  thet  get 

their  livins  from  their  farms, 
An'  prob'ly  think  thet  Law's  ez  good 

ez  hevin'  coats  o'  arms. 
Sence  I  've  ben  here,  I  've  hired  a  chap 

to  look  about  for  me 
To  git  me  a  transplantable  an'  thrifty 

fem'ly-tree, 
An'  he  tells  me  the  Sawins  is  ez  much 

o'  Normal  blood 
Ez  Pickens   an'    the  rest  on  'em,  an' 

older  'n  Noah's  flood. 
Your  Normal   schools  wun't  turn   ye 

into  Normals,  for  it 's  clear, 
Ef  eddykatin' done  the  thing,  they'd 

be  some  skurcer  here. 
Pickenses,  Boggses,  Pettuses,  Magof- 

fins,  Letchers,  Polks,  — 
Where  can  you  scare   up  names  like 

them  among  your  mudsill  folks  ? 
Ther'  's  nothin'  to  compare  with  'em, 

you  'd  fin',  ef  you  should  glance, 
Among  the  tip-top  iemerlies  in  Englan', 

nor  in  France : 
I  've  hearn  from  'sponsible  men  whose 

word  wuz  full  ez  good  's  theii  note. 
Men  thet  can  run  their  face  for  drinks, 

an'  keep  a  Sunday  coat, 
Thet  they  wuz  all  on  'em  come  down, 

and  come  down  pooty  fur, 
From  folks  thet,  'thout  their  crowns  wuz 

on,  ou'  doors  would  n'  never  stir, 
Nor  thet  ther'  warn't  a  Southun  man 

but  wut  wuz  primy /ashy 
O    the  bes'  blood  in   Europe,  yis,  an' 

Afriky  an'  Ashy  : 
Sech  bein'  the  case,  is  't  likely  we  should 

bend  like  cotton-wickin', 
Or  set  down  under  anythin'  so  low-lived 

ez  a  lickin'  ? 


2SO 


THE  BIG  LOW  PAPERS. 


More'n  this,  — hain't  we  the  literatoor 

an'  science,  tu,  by  gorry  ? 
Hain't  we  them  intellectle  twins,  them 

giants,  Simms  an'  Maury, 
Each  with  full  twice  the  ushle  brains, 

like  nothin'  thet  I  know, 
'Thout  't  wuz  a  double-headed  calf  I  see 

once  to  a  show? 

For  all  thet,  I   warn't  jest  at  fust  in 

favor  o'  secedin'  ; 
I  wuz  for  layin'  low  a  spell  to  find  out 

where  't  wuz  leadin', 
For  hevin'  South-Carliny  try  her  hand 

at  sepritnationin', 
She  takin'  resks  an'  findin'  funds,  an' 

we  co-operationin',  — 
I  mean  a  kin'  o'  hangin'  roun'  an'  set- 
tin'  on  the  fence, 
Till    Prov'dunce  pinted  how  to  jump 

an'  save  the  most  expense ; 
I  recollected  thet  'ere  mine  o'  lead  to 

Shiraz  Centre 
Thet  bust  up  Jabez  Pettibone,  an'  did 

n't  want  to  ventur' 
'Fore   I    wuz  sartin  wut  come  out  ud 

pay  for  wut  went  in. 
For  swappin'  silver  off  for  lead  ain't 

the  sure  way  to  win  ; 
(An',  fact,  it  doos  look  now  ez  though  — 

but  folks  must  live  an'  lam  — 
We  should  git   lead,    an'  more  'n  we 

want,  out  o'  the  Old  Consarn  ;) 
But  when  I  see  a  man  so  wise  an'  hon- 
est ez  Buchanan 
A-lettin'  us  hev  all  the  forts  an'  all  the 

arms  an'  cannon, 
Admittin'  we  wuz  nat'lly  right  an  you 

wuz  nat'lly  wrong, 
Coz  you  wuz  lab'rin'-folks  an'  we  wuz 

wut  they  call  bong-tong, 
An'  coz   there   warn't   no  fight   in  ye 

more  'n  in  a  mashed  potater, 
While  two  o'  its  can't   skurcely  meet 

but  wut  we  fight  by  natur', 
An'  th'  ain't  a  bar-room  here   would 

pay  for  openin'  on  't  a  night, 
Without  it  giv  the  priverlege  o'  bein' 

shot  at  sight, 
Which  proves  we  're  Natur's  noblemen, 

with  whom  it  don't  surprise 
The  British  aristoxy  should  feel  boun* 

to  sympathize,  — 
Seein'  all  this,  an'  seein',  tu,  the  thing 

wuz  strikin'  root* 


While  Uncle  Sam  sot  still  in  hopes  thet 

some  one  'd  bring  his  boots, 
I  thought  th'  ole  Union's  hoops   wuz 

off,  an'  let  myself  be  sucked  in 
To  rise  a  peg  an'  jine  the  crowd  thet 

went  for  reconstructin',  — 
Thet  is,  to  hev  the  pardnership  under 

th'  ole  name  continner 
Jest   ez  it  wuz,    we  drorrin'  pay,  you 

findin'  bone  an'  sinner,  — 
On'y  to  put  it  in  the  bond,  an'  enter  't 

in  the  journals, 
Thet  you  're  the  nat'ral  rank  an'  file, 

an'  we  the  nat'ral  kurnels. 

Now  this  I   thought   a  fees'ble  plan, 

thet  'ud  work  smooth  ez  grease, 
Suitin'    the  Nineteenth    Century  an' 

Upper  Ten  idees, 
An'  there  I  meant  to  stick,  an'  so  did 

most  o'  th'  leaders,  tu, 
Coz  we  all  thought  the  chance  wuz  good 

o'  puttin'  on  it  thru  ; 
But  Jeff  he  hit  upon  a  way  o'  helpin' 

on  us  forrard 
By  bein'  unannermous,  —  a  trick  you 

ain't  quite  up  to,  Norrard. 
A  baldin  hain't  no  more  'f  a  chance 

with  them  new  apple-corers 
Than  folks's  oppersition  views  aginst 

the  Ringtail  Roarers  ; 
They  '11   take   'em   out  on  him   'bout 

east,  —  one  canter  on  a  rail 
Makes  a  man  feel  unannermous  ez  Jo- 
nah in  the  whale  ; 
Or  ef  he  's  a  slow-moulded  cuss  thet 

can't  seem  quite  t'  agree, 
He  gits  the  noose  by  tellergraph  upon 

the  nighes'  tree : 
Their  mission-work  with  Afrikins  hez 

put  'em  up,  thet 's  sartin, 
To    all   the   mos'    across-lot  ways    o' 

preachin'  an'  convartin'  ; 
I  '11  bet  my  hat  th'  ain't  nary  priest,  nor 

all  on  'em  together, 
Thet  cairs  conviction  to  the  min'  like 

Reveren'  Taranfeather  ; 
Why,  he  sot  up  with  me  one  night,  an' 

labored  to  sech  purpose, 
Thet  (ez  an  owl  by  daylight  'mongst  a 

flock  o'  teazin'  chirpers 
Sees  clearer  'n  mud  the  wickedness  o' 

eatin'  little  birds) 
I  see  my  error  an'  agreed   to  shen  it 

artervvurds  ; 


rHE   BIGLOiV  PAPERS. 


2S1 


An'  I  should  say,  (to  jedge  our  folks  by 

facs  in  my  possession,) 
Thet  three's  Unannermous  where  one's 

a  'Riginal  Secession  ; 
So>  it 's  a  thing  you  fellers  North  may 

safely  bet  your  chink  on, 
Thet  we  're  all  water-proofed  agin  th' 

usurpin'  reign  o'  Lincoln. 

Jeff's  same.     He's  gut  another  plan 

thet  hez  pertic'lar  merits, 
In  givin'  things  a  cherfle  look  an'  stiff- 

nin'  loose-hung  sperits  ; 
For  while  your  million  papers,  wut  with 

lyin'  an'  discussin', 
Keep  folks's  tempers  all  on  eend  a-fu- 

min'  an'  a-fussin', 
A-wondrin'  this  an'  guessin'  thet,   an' 

dreadin'  every  night, 
The  breechin'  o'  the  Univarse  '11  break 

afore  it  's  light, 
Our  papers  don't  purtend  to  print  on'y 

wut  Guv'ment  choose, 
An'  thet  insures  us  all  to  git  the  very 

best  o'  noose  : 
Jeff  hez  it  of  all  sorts  an'  kines,   an' 

sarves  it  out  ez  wanted, 
So  's  't  every  man  gits  wut  he  likes  an' 

nobody  ain't  scanted ; 
Sometimes  it 's  vict'ries,  (they're  'bout 

all  ther'  is  that 's  cheap  down  here, ) 
Sometimes  it  's  France  an'  England  on 

the  jump  to  interfere. 
Fact  is,  the  less  the  people  know  o'  wut 

ther'  is  a-doin', 
The  hendier  't  is  for  Guv'ment,  sence 

it  henders  trouble  brewin'  ; 
An'  noose  is  like  a  shinplaster, — it's 

good,  ef  you  believe  it, 
Or,  wut 's  all  same,  the  other  man  thet 

's  goin'  to  receive  it : 
Ef  you  've  a  son  in  th'  army,  wy,  it's 

comfortin'  to  hear 
He  '11  hev  no  gretter  resk  to  run  than 

seein'  th'  in'my's  rear, 
Coz,   ef  an   F.  F.  looks  at  'em,  they 

oilers  break  an'  run, 
Or  wilt  right  down  ez  debtors  will  thet 

stumble  on  a  dun 
I  An'  this,  ef  an'thin',  proves  the  wutho' 

proper  fem'ly  pride, 
Fer  sech  mean  shucks  ez  creditors  are 

all  on  Lincoln's  side) ; 
Pf  I  hev  scrip  thet  wun'l  go  off  no 

more  'n  a  Beigin  rifle. 


An'  read  thet  it 's  at  par  mi  'Change,  it 
makes  me  feel  deli'fle  ; 

It'scheerin',  tu,  where  every  man  mus' 
fortify  his  bed, 

To  hear  thet  Freedom 's  the  one  thing 
our  darkies  mos'ly  dread, 

An'  thet  experunce,  time  'n'  agin,  to 
Dixie's  Land  hez  shown 

Ther'  's  nothin'  like  a  powder-cask  fV 
a  stiddy  corner-stone ; 

Ain't  it  ez  good  ez  nuts,  when  salt  is 
sellin'  by  the  ounce 

For  its  own  weight  in  Treash'ry-bons, 
(ef  bought  in  small  amounts,) 

When  even  whiskey 's  gittin'  skurce 
an'  sugar  can't  be  found, 

To  know  thet  all  the  ellerments  o'  lux- 
ury abound  ? 

An'  don't  it  glorify  sal'-pork,  to  come 
to  understand 

It 's  wut  the  Richmon'  editors  call  fat- 
ness o'  the  land  ! 

Nex'  thing  to  knowin'  you're  well  off 
is  nut  to  know  when  y'  ain't ; 

An'  ef  Jeff  says  all 's  goin'  wal,  who  'II 
ventur'  t'  say  it  ain't? 

This  cairn  the  Constitooshun  roun*  ez 

Jeff  doos  in  his  hat 
Is  hendier  a  dreffle   sight,   an'  comes 

more  kin'  o'  pat. 
I  tell  ye  wut,   my  jedgment  is  you  're 

pooty  sure  to  fail, 
Ez  long  'z  the  head  keeps  turnin'  back 

for  counsel  to  the  tail  : 
Th'  advantiges  of  our  consam  for  bein' 

prompt  air  gret, 
While,   'long  o'   Congress,   you  can't 

strike,  'f  you  git  an  iron  het  ; 
They  bother  roun'  with   argooin',  an' 

var'ous  sorts  o'  foolin', 
To  make  sure  ef  it 's  leg'lly  het,  an'  all 

the  while  it 's  coolin', 
So  's  't  when  you  come  to  strike,  it  ain't 

no  gret  to  wish  ye  j'y  on, 
An'  hurts  the  hammer 'z  much  or  more 

ez  wut  it  doos  the  iron, 
Jeff  don't  allow  no  jawin'-sprees   for 

three  months  at  a  stretch, 
Knowin'  the  ears  long  speeches  suits 

air  mostly  made  to  metch  ; 
He  jes'  ropes  in  your  tonguey  chaps 

an'  reg'lar  ten-inch  bores 
An'  lets  'et>S  play  at  Congress,  ef  th^y  'B 

du  it  * it'i'  closed  doors . 


282 


THE   BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


So  they  ain't  no  more  bothersome  than 

ef  we  'd  took  an'  sunk  'em, 
An'  yit  enj'y  th'  exclusive  right  to  one 

another's  Buncombe 
'Thout  doin'  nobody  no  hurt,  an'  'thout 

its  costin'  nothin', 
Their  pay  bein'  jes'   Confedrit  funds, 

they  findin'  keep  an'  clothin'  ; 
They  taste  the  sweets  o'  public  life,  an' 

plan  their  little  jobs, 
An'  suck  the  Treash'ry,  (nogret  harm, 

for  it 's  ez  dry  ez  cobs,) 
An'  go  thru  all  the  motions  jest  ez  safe 

ez  in  a  prison, 
An'  hev  their  business  to  themselves, 

while  Buregard  hez  hisn  : 
£z  long  'z  he  gives  the  Hessians  fits, 

committees  can't  make  bother 
'Bout  whether  't  's  done  the  legle  way 

or  whether  't  's  done  the  t'other. 
An'  /  teNyoit  you  've  gut  to  larn  thet 

War  ain't  one  long  teeter 
Betwixt  /  wan'  toan'  'T  wun't  du,  de- 

batin'  like  a  skeetur 
Afore   he  lights,  —  all   is,  to  give  the 

other  side  a  millin', 
An'  arter  thet  's  done,  th'  ain't  no  resk 

but  wut  the  lor '11  be  willin' ; 
No   metter   wut  the  guv'ment   is,   ez 

nigh  ez  I  can  hit  it, 
A  lickin'  's  constitooshunal,  pervidin' 

We  don't  git  it. 
Jeff  don't  Stan'  dilly-dallyin',  afore  he 

takes  a  fort, 
(With  no  one  in,)  to  git  the  leave  o' 

the  nex'  Soopreme  Court, 
Nor  don't  want  forty-'leven  weeks  o' 

jawin'  an'  expoundin' 
To  prove  a  nigger  hez  a  right  to  save 

him,  ef  he  's  drowndin'  ; 
Whereas  ole  Abram  'd  sink  afore  he  'd 

let  a  darkie  boost  him, 
Ef  Taney   should  n't  come  along  an' 

hedn't  interdooced  him. 
It   ain't  your  twenty   millions  thet  '11 

ever  block  Jeff's  game, 
But  one   Man  thet  wun't  let  'em  jog 

jest  ez  he 's  takin'  aim  : 
Your  numbers  they  may  strengthen  ye 

or  weaken  ye,  ez  't  heppens 
They  're  willin'  to  be  helpin'  hands  or 

wuss'n-nothin'  cap'ns. 

I  've  chose  my  side,  an'  't  ain't  no  odds 
ef  I  wuz  dtawed  with  magnets, 


Or  ef  I  thought  it  prudenter  to  jine  the 

nighes'  bagnets ; 
I  've  made  my  ch'ice,  an'  ciphered  out, 

from  all  I  see  an'  heard, 
Th'  ole  Constitooshun  never  'd  git  her 

decks  for  action  cleared, 
Long  'z  you  elect  for  Congressmen  poor 

shotes  thet  want  to  go 
Coz  they  can't  seem  to  git  their  grub  no 

otherways  than  so, 
An'  let  your  bes'  men  stay  to  home  coz 

they  wun't  show  ez  talkers. 
Nor  can't  be  hired  to  fool  ye  an'  sof- 

soap  ye  at  a  caucus,  — 
Long  'z  ye  set  by  Rotashun  more  'n  ye 

do  by  folks's  merits, 
Ez  though  experunce  thriv  by  change 

o'  sile,  like  corn  an'  kerrits,  — 
Long  'z  you  allow  a  critter's  "  claims  " 

coz,  spite  o'  shoves  an'  tippins, 
He  's  kep'  his  private  pan  jest  where  't 

would    ketch    mos'    public    drip- 
pins,  — 
Long  'z  A.  '11  turn  tu  an'  grin'  B.'s  exe, 

ef  B.  '11  help  him  grin'  hisn, 
(An'   thet's   the   main  idee  by  which 

your  leadin'  men  hev  risen,)  — 
Long  'z  you  let  ary  exe  begroun',  'less 

't  is  to  cut  the  weasan' 
O'  sneaks  thet  dunno  till  they  're  told 

wut  is  an'  wut  ain't  Treason,  — 
Long  'z  ye  give  out  commissions  to  a 

lot  o'  peddlin'  drones 
Thet  trade  in  whiskey  with  their  men 

an'  skin  'em  to  their  bones, — 
Long  'z  ye  sift  out  "safe  "  canderdates 

thet  no  one  ain't  afeared  on 
Coz  they  're  so  thund'rin'  eminent  for 

bein'  never  heard  on, 
An'  hain't  no  record,  ez  it  's  called,  for 

folks  to  pick  a  hole  in, 
Ez  ef  it  hurt  a  man  to  hev  a  body  with 

a  soul  in, 
An'  it  wuz  ostentashun  to  be  showin' 

on  't  about, 
When  half  his  feller-citizens  contrive  to 

do  without,  — 
Long  'z  you   suppose   your  votes  can 

turn  biled  kebbage  into  brain, 
An'  ary  man  thet 's  pop'lar  's  fit  to  drive 

a  lightnin'-train,  — 
Long  'z  you  believe  democracy  means 

I'm  ez  good  ez  you  be. 
An'  that  a  feller  from  the  ranks  can't 

be  a  knave  or  booby,  — 


THE   BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


283 


Long  'z  Congress  seems  purvided,  like 

yer  street-cars  an'  yer  'busses, 
With  oilers  room  for  jes'  one  more  o' 

your  spiled-in-bakin'  cusses, 
Dough  'thout  the  emptins  of  a  soul,  an' 

yit  with  means  about  'em 
(Like  essence-peddlers  *)  thet  '11  make 

folks  long  to  be  without  'em, 
Jest  heavy  'nough  to  turn  a  scale  thet 's 

doubtfle  the  wrong  way, 
An'  make  their  nat'ral  arsenal  o'  bein' 

nasty  pay,  — 
Long'z  them  things  last,  (an'  /  don't 

see  no  gret  signs  of  improvin',) 
I  sha'  n't  up  stakes,  not  hardly  yit,  nor  't 

would  n't  pay  for  movin'  ; 
For,    'fore  you   lick   us,   it  '11  be   the 

long'st  day  ever  you  see. 
Yourn,  (ez  I  'xpec'  to  be  nex'  spring,) 
B.,  Markiss  o'  Big  Boosy. 


No.  IV. 

A  MESSAGE    OF   JEFF   DAVIS 
IN   SECRET  SESSION. 

Conjecturally  reported  by  H.  BlGLOW. 

TO    THE    EDITORS    OF    THE    ATLANTIC 
MONTHLY. 

JAALAM,  10th  March,  1862. 

Gentlemen,  —  My  leisure  has  been 
so  entirely  occupied  with  the  hitherto 
fruitless  endeavour  to  decypher  the  Ru- 
nick  inscription  whose  fortunate  discov- 
ery I  mentioned  in  my  last  communica- 
tion, that  I  have  not  found  time  to  dis- 
cuss, as  I  had  intended,  the  great  prob- 
lem of  what  we  are  to  do  with  slavery, 
—  a  topick  on  which  the  publick  mind  in 
this  place  is  at  present  more  than  ever 
agitated.  What  my  wishes  and  hopes 
are  I  need  not  say,  but  for  safe  conclu- 
sions I  do  not  conceive  that  we  are  yet 
in  possession  of  facts  enough  on  which 
to  bottom  them  with  certainty.  Ac- 
knowledging the  hand  of  Providence, 
as  I  do,  in  all  events,  I  am  sometimes 
inclined  to  think  that  they  are  wiser 

•  A  rustic  euphemism  for  the  American 
variety  of  the  Mephitis.  H.   W. 


than  we,  and  am  willing  to  wait  till  we 
have  made  this  continent  once  more  a 
place  where  freemen  can  live  in  secu- 
rity and  honour,  before  assuming  any 
further  responsibility.  This  is  the  view 
taken  by  my  neighbour  Habakkuk  Slo- 
ansure,  Esq.,  the  president  of  our  bank, 
whose  opinion  in  the  practical  affairs 
of  life  has  great  weight  with  me,  as  I 
have  generally  found  it  to  be  justified 
by  the  event,  and  whose  counsel,  had  I 
followed  it,  would  have  saved  me  from 
an  unfortunate  investment  of  a  consid- 
erable part  of  the  painful  economies  of 
half  a  century  in  the  Northwest-Pas- 
sage Tunnel.  After  a  somewhat  ani- 
mated discussion  w-ith  this  gentleman, 
a  few  days  since,  1  expanded,  on  the 
audi  alteram  partem  principle,  some- 
thing which  he  happened  to  say  by  way 
of  illustration,  into  the  following  fable. 


FESTINA   LENTE. 

ONCE  on  a  time  there  was  a  pool 
Fringed  all  about  with  flag-leaves  cool 
And  spotted  with  cow-lilies  garish, 
Of  frogs  and  pouts  the  ancient  parish. 
Alders  the  creaking  redwings  sink  on, 
Tussocks  that  house  blithe  Bob  o'  Lincoln 
Hedged  round  the  unassailed  seclusion, 
Where  muskrats  piled  their  cells  Carthusian ; 
And  many  a  moss-embroidered  log, 
The  watering-place  of  summer  frog, 
Slept  and  decayed  with  patient  skill, 
As  watering-places  sometimes  will. 

Now  in  this  Abbey  of  Theleme, 

Which  realized  the  fairest  dream 

That  ever  dozing  bull-frog  had, 

Sunned  on  a  half-sunk  lily-pad. 

There  rose  a  party  with  a  mission 

To  mend  the  polliwogs'  condition, 

Who  notified  the  selectmen 

To  call  a  meeting  there  and  then. 

"Some    kind    of  steps,"    they    said,    "are 

needed ; 
They  don't  come  on  so  fast  as  we  did : 
Let  s  dock  their  tails  ;  if  that  don't  make  'em 
Frogs  by  brevet,  the  Old  One  take  'em  I 
That  boy,  that  came  the  other  day 
To  dig  some  flag-root  down  this  way. 
His  jack-knife  left,  and  't  is  a  sign 
That  Heaven  approves  of  our  design  : 
*T  were  wicked  not  to  urge  the  step  on, 
When  Providence  has  sent  the  weapon." 

Old  croakers,  deacons  of  the  mire, 

That  led  the  deep  batrachian  choir, 

Uk  !  Uk  I  Caronk  I  with  bass  that  might 


2S4 


THE   B1GL0W  PAPERS. 


Have  left  Lablache's  out  of  sight, 
Shook  nobby  heads,  and  said,  "  No  go  1 
You  d  better  let  'em  try  to  grow  : 
Old  Doctor  Time  is  slow,  but  still 
He  does  know  how  to  make  a  pill." 

But  vain  was  all  their  hoarsest  bass, 
Their  old  experience  out  of  place, 
And  spite  of  croaking  and  entreating. 
The  vote  was  carried  in  marsh-meetmg. 

"  Lord  knows,"  protest  the  polliwogs, 
"  We  're  anxious  to  be  grown-up  frogs ; 
But  do  not  undertake  the  work 
Of  Nature  till  she  prove  a  shirk  ; 
'T  is  not  by  jumps  that  she  advances, 
But  wins  her  way  by  circumstances : 
Pray,  wait  awhile,  until  you  know 
We  're  so  contrived  as  not  to  grow  ; 
Let  Nature  take  her  own  direction. 
And  she  '11  absorb  our  imperfection  ; 
You  might  n't  like  'em  to  appear  with, 
But  we  must  have  the  things  to  steer  with." 

"  No,"  piped  the  party  of  reform, 
"  All  great  results  are  ta'en  by  storm ; 
Fate  holds  her  best  gifts  till  we  show 
We  've  strength  to  make  her  let  them  go ; 
The  Providence  that  works  in  history, 
And  seems  to  some  folks  such  a  mystery, 
Does  not  creep  slowly  on  incog.. 
But  moves  by  jumps,  a  mighty  frog ; 
No  more  reject  the  Age's  chrism. 
Your  queues  are  an  anachronism  ; 
No  more  the  Future's  promise  mock, 
B»t  lay  your  tails  upon  the  block. 
Thankful  that  we  the  means  have  voted 
To  have  you  thus  to  frogs  promoted." 

The  thing  was  done,  the  tails  were  cropped. 

And  home  each  philotadpole  hopped, 

In  faith  rewarded  to  exult. 

And  wait  the  beautiful  result. 

Too  soon  it  came ;  our  pool,  so  long 

The  theme  of  patriot  bullfrog's  song. 

Next  day  was  reeking,  fit  to  smother, 

With  heads  and  tails  that  missed  each  other,— 

Here  snoutless  tails,  there  tailless  snouts  ; 

The  only  gainers  were  the  pouts. 

MORAL. 

From  lower  to  the  higher  next, 
Not  to  the  top,  is  Nature's  text ; 
And  embryo  Good,  to  reach  full  stature, 
Absorbs  the  Evil  in  its  nature. 

I  think  that  nothing  will  ever  give 
permanent  peace  and  security  to  this 
continent  but  the  extirpation  of  Slavery 
therefrom,  and  that  the  occasion  is 
nigh  ;  but  I  would  do  nothing  hastily 
or  vindictively,  nor  presume  to  jog  the 
elbow  of  Providence.      No  desperate 


measures  for  me  till  we  are  surt  that  aTI 
others  are  hopeless,  — flectere  si nequeo 
su  peros,  A  cheronta  movebo.  To  make 
Emancipation  a  reform  instead  of  a 
revolution  is  worth  a  little  patience, 
that  we  may  have  the  Border  States 
first,  and  then  the  non-slaveholders  of 
the  Cotton  States,  with  us  in  principle, 
—  a  consummation  that  seems  to  be 
nearer  than  many  imagine.  Fiatjusti- 
tia,  ruat  caelum,  is  not  to  be  taken  in  a 
literal  sense  by  statesmen,  whose  prob- 
lem is  to  get  justice  done  with  as  little 
jar  as  possible  to  existing  order,  which 
has  at  least  so  much  of  heaven  in  it  that 
it  is  not  chaos.  Our  first  duty  toward 
our  enslaved  brother  is  to  educate  him, 
whether  he  be  white  or  black.  The 
first  need  of  the  free  black  is  to  elevate 
himself  according  to  the  standard  of 
this  material  generation.  So  soon  as 
the  Ethiopian  goes  in  his  chariot,  he 
will  find  not  only  Apostles,  but  Chief 
Priests  and  Scribes  and  Pharisees  will- 
ing to  ride  with  him. 

Nil  habet  infelix  paupertas  durius  in  se 
Quam  quod  ridiculos  homines  facit. 

I  rejoice  in  the  President's  late  Mes- 
sage, which  at  last  proclaims  the  Gov- 
ernment on  the  side  of  freedom,  justice, 
and  sound  policy. 

As  I  write,  comes  the  news  of  our 
disaster  at  Hampton  Roads.  I  do  not 
understand  the  supineness  which,  after 
fair  warning,  leaves  wood  to  an  unequal 
conflict  with  iron.  It  is  not  enough 
merely  to  have  the  right  on  our  side,  if 
we  stick  to  the  old  flint-lock  of  tradition. 
I  have  observed  in  my  parochial  expe- 
rience (haud  ignarus  mail)  that  the 
Devil  is  prompt  to  adopt  the  latest  in- 
ventions of  destructive  warfare,  and 
may  thus  take  even  such  a  three-decker 
as  Bishop  Butler  at  an  advantage.  It 
is  curious,  that,  as  gunpowder  made 
armour  useless  on  shore,  so  armour  is 
having  its  revenge  by  baffling  its  old 
enemy  at  sea,  —  and  that,  while  gun- 
powder robbed  land  warfare  ot  nearly 
all  its  picturesqueness  to  give  even 
greater  stateliness  and  sublimitv  to  a 
sea-fight,  armour  bids  fair  to  degrade  th» 


THE  BIG  LOW  PAPERS. 


285 


latter  itivo  a  squabble  between  two  iron- 
shelled  turtles. 

Yours,  with  esteem  and  respect, . 
Homer  Wilbur,  A.  M. 

P.  S.  —  1  had  wellnigh  forgotten  to 
say  that  the  object  of  this  letter  is  to 
enclose  a  communication  from  the  gifted 
pen  of  Mr.   Biglow. 


I  sent  you  a  messige,  my  friens,  t'other 

day, 
To  tell  you  I  'd  nothin'  pertickler  to  say  : 
T  wuz  the  day  our  new  nation  gut  kin' 

o'  stillborn, 
So  't  wuz  my  pleasant  dooty  t'  acknowl- 
edge the  corn, 
An'  I  see  clearly  then,  ef  I  didn't  be- 
fore, 
Thet  the  augur  in  inauguration  means 

bore. 
I  needn't  tell  you  thet  my  messige  wuz 

written 
To  diffuse  correc:  notions  in  France  an' 

Gret  Britten, 
An'  agin  to  impress  on  the  poppylar 

mind 
The   comfort  an'  wisdom   o'  goin'   it 

blind,  — 
To  say  thet  I  did  n't  abate  not  a  hooter 
O'  my  faith   in  a  happy  an'   glorious 

futur', 
Ez  rich  in   each  soshle  an'   p'litickle 

blessin' 
Ez  them  thet  we  now  hed  the  joy  o' 

possessin' 
With  a  people  united,  an'  longin'  to  die 
For  wut  we  call  their  country,  without 

askin'  why, 
An'  all  the  gret  things  we  concluded  to 

slope  for 
Ez  much  within  reach  now  ez  ever  — 

to  hope  for. 
We  've  gut  all  the  ellerments,  this  very 

hour, 
Thet  make  up  a  fus'-class,  self-govern- 
in'  power : 
We  've  a  war,  an'  a  debt,  an'  a  flag  ;  an' 

ef  this 
Ain't  to  be  inderpendunt,  why,  wut  on 

airth  is? 
An'  nothin'  now  henders  our  takin'  our 

station 


Ez  the  freest,  enlightenedest,  civerlized 
nation, 

Built  up  on   our  bran'-new   politickle 
thesis 

Thet  a  Gov'ment's  fust  right  is  to  tum- 
ble to  pieces,  — 

I  say  nothin'   henders   our  tak;V  our 
place 

Ez   the  very   fus'-best    o*    the    whole 
human  race, 

A   spittin'    tobacker  ez  proud  ez  you 
please 

On  Victory's  bes'  carpets,  or  loafin'  at 
ease 

In  the  Tool'ries  front-parlor,  discussin 
affairs 

With  our  heels  on   the  backs  o'  Na- 
poleon's new  chairs, 

An'  princes  a-mixin'  our  cocktails  an' 
slings, — 

Excep',   wal,  excep'    jest  a  very  few 
things, 

Sech  ez  navies  an'  armies  an'  where- 
with to  pay, 

An'    gittin'  our  sogers  to  run   t'other 
way. 

An'  not  be  too  over-pertickler  in  tryin* 

To  hunt  up  the  very  las'  ditches  to  die 
in. 

Ther'   are  critters  so  base  thet  they 

want  it  explained 
Jes'  wut  is  the  totle  amount  thet  we  've 

gained, 
Ez  ef  we   could   maysure  stupenjious 

events 
By  the  low  Yankee  stan'ard  o'  dollars 

an'  cents  : 
They  seem   to  forgit,  thet,  sence  last 

year  revolved, 
We  've  succeeded  in  gittin'  seceshed 

an'  dissolved. 
An'  thet  no  one  can't  hope  to  git  thru 

dissolootion 
'Thout  some  kin'  o'  strain  on  the  best 

Constitootion. 
Who  asks  for  a  prospec'  more  flettrin' 

an'  bright, 
When  from  here  clean  to  Texas  it 's  all 

one  free  fight  ? 
Hain't   we   rescued   from  Seward   the 

gret  leadin'  featurs 
Thet  makes  it  wuth  while  to  be  reasonin' 

creaturs  ? 


a86 


THE  B I  GLOW  PAPERS. 


Hain't  we  saved  Habus  Coppers,  im- 
proved it  in  fact, 
By  suspendin'  the  Unionists 'stid  o'  the 

Act? 
Ain't  the  laws  free  to  all  ?    Where  on 

airth  else  d'  ye  see 
Every  freeman  improvin'  his  own  rope 

an'  tree  ? 
Ain't  our  piety  sech  (in  our  speeches  an' 

messiges) 
Ez  t'  astonish  ourselves  in  the  bes'- 

composed  pessiges, 
An'  to  make  folks  that  knowed  us  in  th' 

ole  state  o'  things 
Think  convarsion  ez  easy  ez  drinkin' 

gin-slings  t 

It 's  ne'ssary  to  take  a  good  confident 

tone 
With  the  public  ;  but  here,  jest  amongst 

us,  I  own 
Things  look  blacker  'n  thunder.     Ther' 

's  no  use  denyin' 
We  're  clean  out  o'  money,  an'  'most 

out  o'  lyin',  — 
Two  things  a  young  nation  can't  men- 

nage  without, 
Ef  she  wants  to  look  wal  at  her  fust 

comin'  out ; 
For  the  fust  supplies  physickle  strength, 

while  the  second 
Gives  a  morril  edvantage  thet  's  hard  to 

be  reckoned  : 
For  this  latter  I  'm  willin'  to  du  wut  I 

can  ; 
For  the  former  you  '11  hev  to  consult  on 

a  plan,  — 
Though  our  fust  want  (an'  this  pint  I 

want  your  best  views  on) 
Is  plausible  paper  to  print  I.  O.  U.s  on. 
Some  gennlemen  think   it  would  cure 

all  our  cankers 
In  the  way  o'  finance,  efwe  jes'  hanged 

the  bankers ; 
An'  I  own  the  proposle  'ud  square  with 

my  views, 
Ef  their  lives  wuz  n't  all  thet  we'd  left 

'em  to  lose. 
Some  say  thet  more  confidence  might 

be  inspired, 
Ef  we  voted  our  cities  an'  towns  to  be 

fired,  — 
A  pian  thet   'ud  suttenly  tax  our  en- 
durance, 


Coz  't  would    be    our  own    bills    we 

should  git  for  th'  insurance  : 
But  cinders,  no  metter  how  sacred  we 

think  'em. 
Might  n't  strike  furrin  minds  ez  good 

sources  of  income, 
Nor    the   people,   perhaps,    would  n't 

like  the  eclaw 
O'  bein'  all  turned  into  paytriots  by 

law. 
Some  want  we  should  buy  all  the  cotton 

au'  burn  it, 
On  a  pledge,  when  we  've  gut  thru  the 

war,  to  return  it,  — 
Then  to  take   the  proceeds  an'  hold 

them  ez  security 
For  an   issue  o'  bonds  to  be  met  at 

maturity 
With  an  issue  o'   notes  to  be  paid  in 

hard  cash 
On  the  fus'  Monday  follerin'  the  'tarnal 

Allsmash  : 
This  hez  a  safe  air,  an',  once  holdo'  the 

gold, 
'Ud  leave  our  vile  plunderers  out  in  the 

cold, 
An'  might  temp'  John  Bull,  ef  it  warn't 

for  the  dip  he 
Once  gut  from  the  banks  o'  my  own 

Massissippi. 
Some  think  we  could  make,  by  arrangin' 

the  figgers, 
A    hendy    home-currency  out  of  our 

niggers  ; 
But  it  wun't  du  to  lean  much  on  ary 

sech  staff, 
For  they  're  gittin'  tu  current  a'ready, 

by  half. 
One  gennleman   says,   ef  we  lef  our 

loan  out 
Where  Floyd  could  git  hold  on  't,  he  'd 

take  it,  no  doubt ; 
But  't  ain't  jes'  the  takin',  though  't 

hez  a  good  look. 
We   mus'  git  sunthin'  out  on  it  arter 

it 's  took. 
An'  we  need  now  more  'n  ever,   with 

sorrer  I  own, 
Thet  some  one  another  should  let  us 

a  loan, 
Sence  a  soger  wun't  fight,   on'y  jes' 

while  he  draws  his 
Pay  down  on  the  nail,  for  the  best  of 

all  causes, 


THE  B/GLOIV  PAPERS. 


287 


Thout  askin*  to  know  wut  the  quarrel 's 

about,  — 
An'  once  come  to  thet,  why,  our  game 

is  played  out. 
It 's   ez   true   ez   though   I   should  n't 

never  hev  said  it, 
Thet   a   hitch  hez   took  place  in   our 

system  o'  credit ; 
I  swear  it 's  all  right  in  my  speeches  an' 

messiges, 
But  ther'  's  idees  afloat,   ez   ther'   is 

about  sessiges : 
Folks  wun't  take  a  bond  ez  a  basis  to 

trade  on. 
Without  nosin'  round  to  find  out  wut 

it  's  made  on, 
An'  the  thought  more  an'  more  thru 

the  public  mm'  crosses 
Thet  our  Treshry  hez  gut  'mos'  too 

many  dead  bosses. 
Wut 's  called  credit,  you  see,  is  some 

like  a  balloon, 
Thet  looks  while  it 's  up  'most  ez  ham- 
some  'z  a  moon, 
But  once  git  a  leak  in  't  an'  wut  looked 

so  grand 
Caves  righ'  down  in  a  jiffy  ez  flat  ez 

your  hand. 
Now  the  world  is  a  dreffle  mean  place, 

for  our  sins, 
Where  ther'  ollus  is  critters  about  with 

long  pins 
A-prickin'  the  bubbles  we  've  blowed 

with  sech  care. 
An'  provin'  ther'  's  nothin'  inside  but 

bad  air : 
They  're  all  Stuart  Millses,  poor-white 

trash,  an'  sneaks, 
Without  no  more  chivverlry 'n  Choc- 
taws  or  Creeks, 
Who  think  a  real  gennleman's  promise 

to  pay 
Is  meant  tobe  tookin  trade's  ornery  way : 
Them  fellers  an'  I  could  n'  never  agree  ; 
They  're  the  nateral  foes  o'  the  Southun 

Idee  ; 
I  'd  gladly  take  all  of  our  other  resks  on 

me 
To  be  red  o'  this  low-lived  politikle 
'con'my  ! 

Now  a  dastardly  notion  is  gittin'  about 
Thet   our  bladder  is  bust  an'   the  gas 
oozin'  out. 


An'  onless  we  can  mennage  in  some 

way  to  stop  it, 
Why,  the  thing  's  a  gone  coon,  an'  we 

might  ez  wal  drop  it. 
Brag  works  wal  at  fust,  but  it  ain't  jes' 

the  thing 
For  a  stiddy  inves'ment  the  shiners  to 

bring, 
An'  votin'  we  're  prosp'rous  a  hundred 

times  over 
Wun't  change  bein'  starved  into  livm' 

on  clover. 
Manassas  done  sunthin'  tow'rdsdrawin' 

the  wool 
O'er     the    green,   antislavery  eyes  o' 

John  Bull  : 
Oh,   warrit   it  a  godsend,  jes'   when 

sech  tight  fixes 
Wuz   crowdin'  us  mourners,  to  throw 

double-sixes  ! 
I  wuz  tempted  to  think,  an'  it  wuz  n't 

no  wonder, 
Ther'  wuz  reelly  a  Providence,  —  over 

or  under,  — 
When,  all  packed  for  Nashville,  I  fust 

ascertained 
From    the    papers  up   North    wut    a 

victory  we  'd  gained. 
'T  wuz   the   time  for  diffusin'  correc' 

views  abroad 
Of  our  union  an'  strength  an'  relyin'  on 

God; 
An',  fact,  when   I  'd  gut  thru  my  fust 

big  surprise, 
I  much   ez   half  b'lieved  in   my  own 

tallest  lies, 
An'  conveyed  the  idee  thet  the  whole 

Southun  popperlace 
Wuz  Spartans  all  on  the  keen  jump  for 

Thermopperlies, 
Thet  set  on  the  Lincolnites'  bombs  till 

they  bust, 
An'  fight  for  the  priv'lege  o'  dyin'  the 

fust  ; 
But   Roanoke,  Bufort,  Millspring,  an' 

the  rest 
Of  our  recent  starn-foremost  successes 

out  West, 
Hain't  left  us  a  foot  for  our  swellin'  to 

stand  on,  — 
We  've  showed  too  much  o'  wut  Bure- 

gard  calls  abandon, 
For  all  our  Thermopperlies  (an*  it  *s  a 
marcy 


2S8 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


We  hain't  bed  no  more)  hev  ben  clean 

vicy-varsy, 
An'  wut  Spartans  wuz   ief '  when   the 

battle  wuz  done 
Wuz  them  thet  wuz  too  unambitious  to 

run. 

Oh,  ef  we  bed  on'y  jes'  gut   Reecog- 

nition, 
Things  now  would  ha'  ben  in  a  different 

position  ! 
You  'd   ha'   hed  all  you  wanted  :  the 

paper  blockade 
Smashed    up    into    toothpicks,  —  un- 
limited trade 
In  the  one   thing  thet 's   needfle,   till 

niggers,  I  swow, 
Hed  ben   thicker  'n  provisional  shin- 
plasters  now,  — 
Quinine  by  the  ton  'ginst  the  shakes 

when  they  seize  ye,  — 
Nice  paper  to  coin  into  C.  S.  A.  specie  ; 
The  voice  of  the  driver  'd  be  heerd  in 

our  land, 
An'   the  univarse  scringe,  ef  we  lifted 

our  hand : 
Wouldn't  thet  be  some  like  afulfillin' 

the  prophecies, 
With  all  the  fus'  fem'lies  in  all  the  fust 

offices  ? 
'T  wuz  a  beautiful  dream,  an'  all  sorrer 

is  idle, — 
But  ef  Lincoln  would  ha'  hanged  Ma- 
son an'  Slidell  ! 
For  wouldn't  the  Yankees  hev  found 

they  'd  ketched  Tartars, 
Ef  they  'd   raised  two  sech  critters  as 

them  into  martyrs  ? 
Mason  wuz  F.  F.  V.,  though  a  cheap 

card  to  win  on, 
But  t'other  was  jes'  New  York  trash  to 

begin  on  ; 
They  ain't  o'   no  good  in    European 

pellices, 
But  think  wut  a  help  they  'd  ha'  ben 

on  their  gallowses  ! 
They  'd  ha'  felt  they  wuz  truly  fulfillin' 

their  mission, 
An',  oh,  how  dog-cheap  we  'd  ha'  gut 

Reecognition  ! 

But  somehow  another,  wutever  we  've 

tried, 
Though  the  the'ry  's  fust-rate,  the  facs 

wun't  coincide  : 


Facs  are  contrary  'z  mules,  an'  ez  hard 

in  the  mouth, 
An'  they  alius  hev  showed  a  mean  sp:t« 

to  the  South. 
Sech  bein'  the  case,  we  hed  best  look 

about 
For  some  kin'  o'  way  to  slip  our  necks 

out  : 
Le'  's  vote  our  las'  dollar,  ef  one  can  be 

found, 
(An',  at  any  rate,  votin'  it  hez  a  good 

sound,)  — 
Le'  |s  swear  thet  to  arms  all  our  people 

is  flyin', 
(The  critters  can't  read,  an'  wun't  know 

how  we  're  lyin',)  — 
Thet  Toombs  is  advancin'  to  sack  Cin- 

cinnater, 
With  a  rovin'  commission  to  pillage  an' 

slahter,  — 
Thet  we  've  throwed  to  the  winds  all 

regard  for  wut's  lawfle, 
An'  gone  in  for  sunthin'  promiscu'sly 

awfle. 
Ye  see,  hitherto,  it's  our  own  knaves 

an'  fools 
Thet  we  've  used,  (those  for  whetstones, 

an'  t'others  ez  tools,) 
An'  now  our  las'  chance  is  in  puttin'  to 

test 
The  same  kin'  o'  cattle  up  North  an' 

out  West,  — 
Your  Belmonts,  Vallandighams,  Woods- 

es,  an'  sech, 
Poor  shotes  thet  ye  could  n't  persuade 

us  to  tech, 
Not   in   ornery   times,   though   we  're 

willin'  to  feed  'em 
With  a  nod  now  an'  then,   when  we 

happen  to  need  'em  ; 
Why,   for  my  part,  I  'd  ruther  shake 

hands  with  a  nigger 
Than  with  cusses  that  load  an'  don't 

darst  dror  a  trigger  ; 
They  're  the  wust  wooden  nutmegs  the 

Yankees  produce, 
Shaky  everywheres  else,  an'  jes'  sound 

on  the  goose  ; 
They  ain't  wuth  a  cuss,  an'  I  set  noth- 

in'  by  'em, 
But  we  're  in  sech  a  fix  thet  I  s'pose  we 

mus'  try  'em. 
I But,  Gennlemen,  here  's  a  de- 
spatch jes'  come  in 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


189 


Which  shows  thet  the  tide 's  begun  turn- 
in'  agin,  — 

Gret  Cornfedrit  success  !  C'lumbus 
eevacooated  ! 

I  mus'  run  down  an'  hev  the  thing  prop- 
erly stated, 

An'  show  wut  a  triumph  it  is,  an'  how 
lucky 

To  fin'lly  git  red  o'  thet  cussed  Ken- 
tucky, — 

An'  how,  sence  Fort  Donelson,  winnin' 
the  day 

Consists  in  triumphantly  gittin'  away. 


No.  V. 

SPEECH  OF  HONOURABLE 
PRESERVED  DOE  IN  SE- 
CRET CAUCUS. 

TO  THE  EDITORS  OF  THE  ATLANTIC 
MONTHLY. 

JAALAM,  I2th  April,  1862. 

Gentlemen,  —  As  I  cannot  but 
hope  that  the  ultimate,  if  not  speedy, 
success  of  the  national  arms  is  now 
sufficiently  ascertained,  sure  as  I  am 
of  the  righteousness  of  our  cause  and 
its  consequent  claim  on  the  blessing  of 
God,  (for  I  would  not  show  a  faith  infe- 
rior to  that  of  the  pagan  historian  with 
his  Facile  evenit  quod  Dis  cordi  est,) 
it  seems  to  me  a  suitable  occasion  to 
withdraw  our  minds  a  moment  from  the 
confusing  din  of  battle  to  objects  of 
peaceful  and  permanent  interest.  Let 
us  not  neglect  the  monuments  of  pre- 
terite history  because  what  shall  be  his- 
tory is  so  diligently  making  under  our 
eyes.  Cras  ingens  iterabimus  czquor ; 
to-morrow  will  be  time  enough  for  that 
stormy  sea  ;  to-day  let  me  engage  the 
attention  of  your  readers  with  the  Ru- 
nick  inscription  to  whose  fortunate  dis- 
covery I  have  heretofore  alluded.  Well 
may  we  say  with  the  poet,  Multa  re- 
nascuntur  qucz  jam  cecidere.  And  I 
would  premise,  that,  although  I  can  no 
longer  resist  the  evidence  of  my  own 
senses  from  the  stone  before  me  to  the 
19 


ante-Columbian  discovery  of  this  con- 
tinent by  the  Northmen,  gens  inclytis- 
sima,  as  they  are  called  in  a  Palermi- 
tan  inscription,  written  fortunately  in  a 
less  debatable  character  than  that  which 
I  am  about  to  decipher,  yet  I  would  by 
no  means  be  understood  as  wishing  to 
vilipend  the  merits  of  the  great  Geno- 
ese, whose  name  will  never  be  forgot- 
ten so  long  as  the  inspiring  strains  of 
"  Hail  Columbia  "  shall  continue  to  be 
heard.  Though  he  must  be  stripped 
also  of  whatever  praise  may  belong  to 
the  experiment  of  the  egg,  which  I  find 
proverbially  attributed  by  Castilian 
authors  to  a  certain  Juanito  or  Jack, 
(perhaps  an  offshoot  of  our  giant-killing 
mythus,)  his  name  will  still  remain  one 
of  the  most  illustrious  of  modem  times. 
But  the  impartial  historian  owes  a  duty 
likewise  to  obscure  merit,  and  my  so- 
licitude to  render  a  tardy  justice  is  per- 
haps quickened  by  my  having  known 
those  who,  had  their  own  field  of  labour 
been  less  secluded,  might  have  found  a 
readier  acceptance  with  the  reading 
publick.  I  could  give  an  example,  but 
I  forbear  :  forsitan  nostris  ex  ossibus 
oritur  ultor. 

Touching  Runick  inscriptions,  I  find 
that  they  may  be  classed  under  three 
general  heads :  1°  Those  which  are 
understood  by  the  Danish  Royal  So- 
ciety of  Northern  Antiquaries,  and 
Professor  Rafh,  their  Secretary ;  2°. 
Those  which  are  comprehensible  only 
by  Mr.  Rafh  ;  and  3°  Those  which 
neither  the  Society,  Mr.  Rafn,  nor  any- 
body else  can  be  said  in  any  definite 
sense  to  understand,  and  which  accord- 
ingly offer  peculiar  temptations  to 
enucleating  sagacity.  These  last  are 
naturally  deemed  the  most  valuable  by 
intelligent  antiquaries,  and  to  this  class 
the  stone  now  in  my  possession  fortu- 
nately belongs.  Such  give  a  pictur- 
esque variety  to  ancient  events,  because 
susceptible  oftentimes  of  as  many  in- 
terpretations as  there  are  individual 
archaeologists  ;  and  since  facts  are  only 
the  pulp  in  which  the  Idea  or  event- 
seed  is  softly  imbedded  till  it  ripen,  it 
is  of  little  consequence  what  colour  or 
flavour  we  attribute  to  them,  provided 


290 


THE  BIG  LOW  PAPERS. 


it  be  agreeable.  Availing  myself  of  the 
obliging  assistance  of  Mr.  Arphaxad 
Bowers,  an  ingenious  photographick 
artist,  whose  house-on-wheels  has  now 
stood  for  three  years  on  our  Meeting- 
House  Green,  with  the  somewhat  con- 
tradictory inscription,  —  "  our  motto  is 
onward,"  —  I  have  sent  accurate  copies 
of  my  treasure  to  many  learned  men 
and  societies,  both  native  and  Eu- 
ropean. I  may  hereafter  communicate 
their  different  and  {me  judice)  equally 
erroneous  solutions.  I  solicit  also, 
Messrs.  Editors,  your  own  acceptance 
of  the  copy  herewith  inclosed.  I  need 
only  premise  further,  that  the  stone 
itself  is  a  goodly  block  of  metamor- 
phick  sandstone,  and  that  the  Runes 
resemble  very  nearly  the  ornithichnites 
or  fossil  bird-tracks  of  Dr.  Hitchcock, 
but  with  less  regularity  or  apparent  de- 
sign than  is  displayed  by  those  remark- 
able geological  monuments.  These  are 
rather  the  non  bene  j unctarum  dis- 
cordia  semina  rerum.  Resolved  to 
leave  no  door  open  to  cavil,  I  first  of  all 
attempted  the  elucidation  of  this  re- 
markable example  of  lithick  literature 
by  the  ordinary  modes,  but  with  no 
adequate  return  for  my  labour.  I  then 
considered  myself  amply  justified  in  re- 
sorting to  that  heroick  treatment  the 
felicity  of  which,  as  applied  by  the  great 
Bentley  to  Milton,  had  long  ago  enlisted 
my  admiration.  Indeed,  I  had  already 
made  up  my  mind,  that,  in  case  good 
fortune  should  throw  any  such  invalua- 
ble record  in  my  way,  I  would  proceed 
with  it  in  the  following  simple  and  satis- 
factory method.  After  a  cursory  ex- 
amination, merely  sufficing  for  an  ap- 
proximative estimate  of  its  length,  I 
would  write  down  a  hypothetical  in- 
scription based  upon  antecedent  proba- 
bilities, and  then  proceed  to  extract 
from  the  characters  engraven  on  the 
stone  a  meaning  as  nearly  as  possible 
conformed  to  this  a  priori  product  of 
my  own  ingenuity.  The  result  more 
than  justified  my  hopes,  inasmuch  as 
the  two  inscriptions  were  made  without 
any  great  violence  to  tally  in  all  es- 
sential particulars.  I  then  proceeded, 
not  without  some  anxiety,  to  my  second 


test,  which  was,  to  read  the  Runick 
letters  diagonally,  and  again  with  the 
same  success.  With  an  excitement 
pardonable  under  the  circumstances, 
yet  tempered  with  thankful  humility,  I 
now  applied  my  last  and  severest  trial, 
my  experimentum  crucis.  I  turned 
the  stone,  now  doubly  precious  in  my 
eyes,  with  scrupulous  exactness  upside 
down.  The  physical  exertion  so  far 
displaced  my  spectacles  as  to  derange 
for  a  moment  the  focus  of  vision.  I 
confess  that  it  was  with  some  tremu- 
lousness  that  I  readjusted  them  upon 
my  nose,  and  prepared  my  mind  to 
bear  with  calmness  any  disappointment 
that  might  ensue.  But,  O  albo  dies 
notanda  lapillo  !  what  was  my  delight 
to  find  that  the  change  of  position  had 
effected  none  in  the  sense  of  the  writing, 
even  by  so  much  as  a  single  letter  !  I 
was  now,  and  justly,  as  I  think,  satisfied 
of  the  conscientious  exactness  of  my  in- 
terpretation.    It  is  as  follows : — 

HERE 

BJARNA   GRflWOLFSSON 

FIRST  DRANK  CLOUD-BROTHER 

THROUGH    CHILD-OF-LAND-AND- 

WATER : 

that  is,  drew  smoke  through  a  reed 
stem.  In  other  words,  we  have  here  a 
record  of  the  first  smoking  of  the  herb 
Nicotiana  Tabacum  by  an  European 
on  this  continent.  The  probable  re- 
sults of  this  discovery  are  so  vast  as  to 
baffle  conjecture.  If  it  be  objected, 
that  the  smoking  of  a  pipe  would  hardly 
justify  the  setting  up  of  a  memorial 
stone,  I  answer,  that  even  now  the 
Moquis  Indian,  ere  he  takes  his  first 
whiff,  bows  reverently  toward  the  four 
quarters  of  the  sky  in  succession,  and 
that  the  loftiest  monuments  have  been 
reared  to  perpetuate  fame,  which  is  the 
dream  of  the  shadow  of  smoke.  The 
Saga,  it  will  be  remembered,  leaves 
this  Bjarna  to  a  fate  something  like  that 
of  Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert,  on  board  a 
sinking  ship  in  the  "  wormy  sea,"  hav- 
ing generously  given  up  his  place  in  the 
boat  to  a  certain  Icelander.  It  is  doubly 
pleasant,  therefore,  to  meet  with  this 
proof  that  the  brave  old  maa  arrived 


THE   BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


agi 


safely  in  Vinland,  and  that  his  declining 
years  were  cheered  by  the  respectful 
attentions  of  the  dusky  denizens  of  our 
then  uninvaded  forests.  Most  of  all 
was  I  gratified,  however,  in  thus  link- 
ing forever  the  name  of  my  native  town 
with  one  of  *he  most  momentous  oc- 
currences of  modern  times.  Hitherto 
Jaalam,  th<ugh  in  soil,  climate,  and 
geographical  position  as  highly  qualified 
to  be  the  theatre  of  remarkable  histori- 
cal incidents  as  any  spot  on  the  earth's 
surface,  has  been,  if  I  may  say  it  with- 
out seeming  to  question  the  wisdom  of 
Providence,  almost  maliciously  neglect- 
ed, as  it  might  appear,  by  occurrences 
of  world-wide  interest  in  want  of  a  sit- 
uation. And  in  matters  of  this  nature 
it  must  be  confessed  that  adequate 
events  are  as  necessary  as  the  vates 
sacer  to  record  them.  Jaalam  stood 
always  modestly  ready,  but  circum- 
stances made  no  fitting  response  to  her 
generous  intentions.  Now,  however, 
she  assumes  her  place  on  the  historick 
roll.  I  have  hitherto  been  a  zealous 
opponent  of  the  Circean  herb,  but  I 
shall  now  re-examine  the  question  with- 
out bias. 

I  am  aware  that  the  Rev.  Jonas 
Tutchel,  in  a  recent  communication  to 
the  Bogus  Four  Comers  Weekly  Me- 
ridian, has  endeavoured  to  show  that 
this  is  the  sepulchral  inscription  of 
Thorwald  Eriksson,  who,  as  is  well 
known,  was  slain  in  Vinland  by  the 
natives.  But  I  think  he  has  been  mis- 
led by  a  preconceived  theory,  and  can- 
not but  feel  that  he  has  thus  made  an 
ungracious  return  for  my  allowing  him 
to  inspect  the  stone  with  the  aid  of  my 
own  glasses  (he  having  by  accident  left 
his  at  home)  and  in  my  own  study.  The 
heathen  ancients  might  have  instructed 
this  Christian  minister  in  the  rites  of 
hospitality  ;  but  much  is  to  be  pardoned 
to  the  spirit  of  self-love.  He  must  in- 
deed be  ingenious  who  can  make  out 
the  words  hir  hvilir  from  any  charac- 
ters in  the  inscription  in  question, 
which,  whatever  else  it  may  be,  is 
certainly  not  mortuary.  And  even 
should  the  reverend  gentleman  suc- 
ceed in  persuading   some    fantastical 


wits  of  the  soundness  of  his  views,  I  do 
not  see  what  useful  end  he  will  have 
gained.  For  if  the  English  Courts  of 
Law  hold  the  testimony  of  grave-stones 
from  the  burial-grounds  of  Protestant 
dissenters  to  be  questionable,  even 
where  it  is  essential  in  proving  a  de- 
scent, I  cannot  conceive  that  the  epi- 
taphial  assertions  of  heathens  should 
be  esteemed  of  more  authority  by  any 
man  of  orthodox  sentiments. 

At  this  moment,  happening  to  cast 
my  eyes  upon  the  stone,  on  which  a 
transverse  light  from  my  southern  win- 
dow brings  out  the  characters  with 
singular  distinctness,  another  interpre- 
tation has  occurred  to  me,  promising 
even  more  interesting  results.  I  hasten 
to  close  my  letter  in  order  to  follow  at 
once  the  clew  thus  providentially  sug- 
gested. 

I  inclose,  as  usual,  a  contribution 
from  Mr.  Biglow,  and  remain, 

Gentlemen,  with  esteem  and  respect, 
Your  Obedient  Humble  Servant, 
Homer  Wilbur,  A.  M. 


I  thank  ye,  my  friens,  for  the  warmth 

o'  your  greetin'  : 
Ther'  's  few  airthly  blessins  but  wut  's 

vain  an'  fleetin'  ; 
But  efther'  is  one  thet  hain't  no  cracks 

an'  flaws, 
An'  is  wuth  goin'  in  for,  it  's  pop'lar 

applause  ; 
It  sends   up   the   sperits  ez  lively  ez 

rockets, 
An'  I  feel  it  —  wal,  down  to  the  eend  o' 

my  pockets. 
Jes'   lovin'  the   people    is  Canaan   in 

view, 
But  it 's  Canaan  paid  quarterly  t'  hev 

'em  love  you  ; 
It  's  a  blessin'  thet  'sbreakin'  out  ollus 

in  fresh  spots  ; 
It's  a-follerin'  Moses  'thout  losin'  the 

flesh-pots. 
But,   Gennlemen,    'scuse  me,   I   ain't 

sech  a  raw  cus 
Ez  to  go    luggin'    ellerkence    into   a 

caucus,  — 
Thet  is,  into  one  where  the  call  com- 
prehends 


2*73 


THE  B I  GLOW  PAPERS. 


Nut   the   People  in  person,   but  on'y 

their  friends ; 
I  'm  so  kin'  o'  used  to  convincin'  the 

masses 
Ofth'  edvantage  o' bein' self-governin' 

asses, 
I  forgut  thet  we  're  all  o'  the  sort  thet 

pull  wires 
An'  arrange  for  the  public  their  wants 

an'  desires, 
An'  thet  wut  we  hed  met  for  wuz  jes'  to 

agree 
Wut   the    People's   opinions  in  futur' 

should  be. 

Now,  to  come  to  the  nub,  we  've  ben 

all  disappinted, 
An'  our  leadin'  idees  are  a  kind  o'  dis- 

jinted, — 
Though,  fur  ez  the  nateral  man  could 

discern, 
Things  ough'  to  ha'  took  most  an  op- 

persite  turn. 
But  The'ry  is  jes'  like  a  train  on  the 

rail, 
Thet,  weather  or  no,  puts  her  thru  with- 
out fail, 
While  Fac  's  the  ole  stage  thet   gits 

sloughed  in  the  ruts, 
An'  hez  to  allow  for  your  darned  efs  an' 

buts, 
An'  so,  nut   intendin'   no  pers'nal  re- 
flections, 
They  don't  —  don't  nut  alius,  thet  is,  — 

make  connections : 
Sometimes,  when  it  really  doos  seem 

thet  they  'd  oughter 
Combine  jest  ez  kindly  ez  new  rum  an' 

water, 
Both  '11  be  jest  ezsot  in  their  ways  ez  a 

bagnet, 
Ez  otherwise-minded  ez  th'  eends  of  a 

magnet, 
An'  folks  like  you  'n'  me,  thet  ain't  ept 

to  be  sold, 
Git  somehow  or  'nother  left  out  in  the 

cold. 

I  expected  'fore  this,  'thout  no  gret  of  a 

row, 
Jeff  D.  would  ha'  ben  where  A.  Lincoln 

is  now, 


With  Taney  to  say 't  wuz  all  leg1"*  *»'  >    'Thorn  't  wiz  sinthin'  ez  pressir.  ez 


An'  a  jury   o'   Deemocrats    ready   to 

swear 
Thet  the  ingin  o'  State  gut  throwed  into 

the  ditch 
By  the  fault  o'  the  North  in  misplacin' 

the  switch. 
Things    wuz    ripenin'     fust-rate    with 

Buchanan  to  nuss  'em  ; 
But  the  People  they  would  n't  be  Mex- 
icans, cuss  'em  I 
Ain't  the  safeguards  o'  freedom  upsot, 

'z  you  may  say, 
Ef  the  right  o'  rev'lution  is  took  clean 

away? 
An'  doos  n't  the  right  primy-fashy  in- 
clude 
The  bein'  entitled  to  nut  be  subdued? 
The  fact  is,  we  'd  gone  for  the  Union  so 

strong, 
When  Union  meant  South  ollus  right 

an*  North  wrong, 
Thet  the  people  gut  fooled  into  thinkin' 

it  might 
Worry  on  middlin'  wal  with  the  North 

in  the  right. 
We  might  ha'  ben  now  jest  ez  pros- 

p'rousez  France, 
Where   p'litikle   enterprise  hez  a  fair 

chance, 
An'  the  people  is  heppy  an'  proud  et 

this  hour, 
Long  ez  they  hev  the  votes,  to  let  Nap 

hev  the  power  ; 
But  our  folks  they  went  an'  believed 

wut  we  'd  told  'em, 
An',  the  flag  once  insulted,  no  mortle 

could  hold  'em 
'T  wuz  pervokin'  jest  when  we  wuz 

cert'in  to  win,  — 
An'  I,  for  one,  wun't  trust  the  masses 

agin  : 
For  a  people  thet  knows  much  ain't  fit 

to  be  free 
In  the  self-cockin',  back-action  style  o' 

J.  D. 

I  can't  believe  now  but  wut  half  on  't  is 

lies ; 
For  who  'd   thought   the   North  wuz 

a-goin'  to  rise, 
Or    take    the   pervokio'est  kin'   of   a 

stump, 


fair. 


dabk'«l's  Ks'  fimf ' 


THE  B1GL0W  PAPERS. 


*93 


Or  who  d  ha'  supposed,  arter  seek  swell 

an'  bluster 
'Bout   the    )ick-ary-ten-on-ye    fighters 

they  'd  muster, 
Raised  by  hand  on  briled  Iightnin',  ez 

op'lent  'z  you  please 
In    a    primitive    furrest    o'    femmily- 

trees,  — 
Who  'd  ha'  thought  thet  them  South- 

uners  ever  'ud  show 
Starnswith  pedigrees  to  'em  like  theirn 

to  the  foe, 
Or,  when  the  vamosin'  come,  ever  to 

find 
Nat'ral  masters  in  front  an'  mean  white 

folks  behind  ? 
By  ginger,  ef  I  'd  ha'  known  half  I  know 

now, 
When  I  wuz  to  Congress,  I  wouldn't,  I 

swow, 
Hev  let  'em  cairon  so  high-minded  an' 

sarsy, 
'Thout  some  show  o'  wut  you  may  call 

vicy-varsy. 
To  be  sure,  we  wuz  under  a  contrac' jes' 

then 
To  be  dreftle  forbearin'  towards  South- 

un  men  ; 
We  hed  to  go  sheers  in  preservin'  the 

bellance  : 
An'  ez  they  seemed  to  feel  they  wuz 

wastin'  their  tellents 
'Thout    some    un   to  kick,    't  warn't 

more  'n  proper,  you  know, 
Each  should  funnish  his  part ;  an'sence 

they  found  the  toe, 
An'  we  wuz  n't  cherubs  —  wal,  we  found 

the  buffer, 
For  fear  thet  the  Compromise  System 

should  suffer. 

I  wxm't  say  the  plan  hed  n't  onpleasant 

featurs,  — 
Fee  men  are  perverse  an'  onreasonin' 

creaturs, 
An'  forgit  thet  in  this  life  't  ain't  likely 

to  heppen 
Their  own  privit  fancy  should  ollus  be 

cappen,  — 
But  it  worked  jest  ez  smooth  ez  the  key 

of  a  safe, 
An'  the  gret  Union  bearins  played  free 

from  all  chafe. 
They  warn't  hard  to  suit,  ef  they  hed 

their  own  way ; 


An'  we  (thet  is,  some  on  us)  made  the 
thing  pay : 

'T  wuz  a  fair  give-an'-take  out  of  Uncle. 
Sam's  heap ; 

Ef  they  took  wut  warn't  theirn,  wut  we 
give  come  ez  cheap  ; 

The  elect  gut  the  offices  down  to  tide- 
waiter, 

The  people  took  skinnin'  ez  mild  ez  a 
tater, 

Seemed  to  choose  who  they  wanted  tu, 
footed  the  bills. 

An'  felt  kind  o'  'z  though  they  wuz 
havin'  their  wills, 

Which  kep'  'em  ez  harmless  an'  cherfle 
ez  crickets, 

While  all  we  invested  wuz  names  on 
the  tickets : 

Wal,  ther'  's  nothin',  for  folks  fond  o' 
lib'ral  consumption 

Free  o'  charge,  like  democ'acy  tem- 
pered with  gumption  ! 

Now  warn't  thet  a  system  wuth  pains 

in  presarvin', 
Where  the  people  found  jints  an'  their 

friens  done  the  carvin',  — 
Where    the    many   done  all   o'    their 

thinkin'  by  proxy, 
An'  were  proud  on  't  ez  long  ez  't  wuz 

christened  Democ'cy,  — 
Where  the  few  let  us  sap  all  o'  Free- 
dom's foundations, 
Ef  you  call  it  reformin'  with  prudence 

an'  patience, 
An'  were  willin'  Jeffs  snake-egg  should 

hetch  with  the  rest, 
Ef  you  writ  "  Constitootional "  over  the 

nest? 
But  it 's  all  out  o'  kilter,  ('t  wuz  too  good 

to  last,) 
An'  all  jes'  by  J.  D.'s  perceedin'  too 

fast; 
Ef  he  'd  on'y  hung  on  for  a  month  or 

two  more, 
We  'd  ha'  gut  things  fixed  nicer  'n  they 

hed  ben  before : 
Afore  he  drawed  off  an'  lef  all  in  con- 
fusion, 
We  wuz  safely  entrenched  in   the  ole 

Constitootion, 
With  an  outlyin',  heavy-gun,  casemated 

fort 
To   rake   all   assailants,  —  I   mean   th' 

S.  J.  Court. 


294 


THE   BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


Now  I  never  '11  acknowledge  (nut  ef 

you  should  skin  me) 
'Twuz  wise  to  abandon  sech  works  to 

the  in'my, 
An'  let  him  fin'  out  thet  wut  scared  him 

so  long, 
Our  whole  line  of  argyments,   lookin' 

so  strong, 
All  our  Scriptur'  an'  law,  every  the'ry 

an'  fac', 
Wuz   Quaker-guns  daubed   with  Pro- 
slavery  black. 
Why,  ef  the  Republicans  ever  should 

git 
Andy  Johnson  or  some  one  to  lend  'em 

the  wit 
An'  the  spunk  ies'  to  mount  Constitoo- 

tion  an'  Court 
With  Columbiad  guns,  your  real  ekle- 

rights  sort, 
Or  drill  out  the  spike  from  the  ole  Dec- 
laration 
Thet  can  kerry  a  solid  shot  clearn  roun' 

creation, 
We  'd  better  take  maysures  for  shettin' 

up  shop, 
An'  put  off  our  stock  by  a  vendoo  or 

swop. 

But  they  wun't  never  dare  tu ;   you  '11 

see  'em  in  Edom 
'Fore  they  ventur'  to   go  where  their 

doctrines  'ud  lead  'em  : 
They  've  ben  takin'  our  princerples  up 

ez  we  dropt  'em, 
An'   thought   it  wuz   terrible   'cute   to 

adopt  'em  ; 
But  they  '11  fin'  out  'fore  long  thet  their 

hope  's  ben  deceivin'  'em, 
An'  thet  princerples  ain't  o'  no  good, 

ef  you  b'lieve  in  'em  ; 
It  makes  'em  tu  stiff  for  a  party  to  use, 
Where  they  'd  ough'  to  be  easy  'z  an 

ole  pair  o'  shoes. 
If  w  say  'n  our  pletform  thet  all  men 

are  brothers, 
We  don't  mean  thet   some  folks  ain't 

more  so  'n  some  others  ; 
An'  it 's  wal  understood  thet  we  make 

a  selection, 
An'  thet  brotherhood  kin'  o'  subsides 

arter  'lection. 
The  fust  thing  for  sound  politicians  to 

lam  is. 


Thet  Truth,  to  dror  kindly  in  all  sorts 

o'  harness, 
Mus'   be   kep'   in   the   abstract,  —  for, 

come  to  apply  it, 
You  're  ept  to  hurt  some  folks's  inter- 

ists  by  it. 
Wal,  these  'ere  Republicans  (some  on 

'em)  ects 
Ez  though    gineral    mexims   'ud   suit 

speshle  facts ; 
An'    there  's   where   we  Ml    nick   'em, 

there  's  where  they  '11  be  lost  : 
For    applyin'    your    princerple  's    wut 

makes  it  cost, 
An'  folks  don't  want  Fourth  o'  July  t* 

interfere 
With  the  business-consarns  o'  the  rest 

o'  the  year, 
No  more  'n  they  want  Sunday  to  pry 

an' to  peek 
Into  wut  they  are  doin'  the  rest  o'  the 

week. 

A  ginooine  statesman  should  be  on  hi$ 

guard, 
Ef  he  must  hev  beliefs,  nut  to  b'lieve. 

'em  tu  hard  ; 
For,  ez  sure  ez  he  does,  he  '11  be  blar~ 

tin'  'em  out 
'Thout  regardin'    the    natur'    o'   man 

more  'n  a  spout, 
Nor  it   don't   ask   much  gumption  to 

pick  out  a  flaw 
In  a  party  whose  leaders  are  loose  in 

the  jaw  : 
An'  so  in  our  own  case  I  ventur'  to  hint 
Thet  we  'd  better  nut  air  our  perceed- 

ins  in  print, 
Nor  pass  resserlootions  ez  long  ez  your 

arm 
Thet  may,  ez  things  heppen  to  turn,  do 

us  harm  ; 
For  when  you  've  done  all  your  real 

meanin'  to  smother, 
The    darned    things  '11    up  an'   mean 

sunthin'  or  'nother. 
Jeff'son   prob'ly  meant  wal  with  his 

"  born  free  an'  ekle," 
But  it 's  turned  out  a  real  crooked  stick 

in  the  sekle  ; 
It  's  taken  full  eighty-odd  year  —  don't 

you  see  ?  — 
From  the  pop'lar  belief  to  root  out  thet 

idee, 


THE  B/GLOiy  FAJ'ERS. 


»9S 


An',  arterall,  suckers  on  'tkeep  buddin' 

forth 
In  the  nat'lly  onprincipled  mind  o'  the 

North. 
No,  never  say  nothin'  without  you're 

compelled  tu, 
An'  then  don't  say  nothin'  thet  you  can 

be  held  tu, 
Nor  don't  leave  no  friction-idees  layin' 

loose 
For  the  ign'ant  to  put  to  incend'ary  use. 

You  know  I  'm  a  feller  thet  keeps  a 

skinned  eye 
On  the  leetle  events  thet  go  skurryin' 

by, 
Coz  it 's  of 'ner  by  them  than  by  gret 

ones  you  '11  see 
Wut  the  p'litickle  weather  is  likely  to 

be. 
Now  I  don't  think  the  South  's  more  'n 

begun  to  be  licked, 
But  I  du  think,  ez  Jeff  says,  the  wind- 
bag 's  gut  pricked ; 
It  'II  blow  for  a  spell  an'  keep  puffin' 

an'  wheezin', 
The  tighter  our  army  an'  navy  keep 

squeezin',  — 
For  they  can't  helpspread-eaglein'  long 

'z  ther'  's  a  mouth 
To  blow  Enfield's  Speaker  thru  lef '  at 

the  South. 
But  it 's  high  time  for  us  to  be  settin' 

our  faces 
Towards    reconstructin'    the    national 

basis, 
With  an  eye  to  beginnin'  agin  on  the 

jolly  ticks 
We  used  to  chalk  up  'hind  the  back- 
door o'  politics ; 
An'  the  fus'  thing  's  to  save  wut  of 

Slav'ry  ther'  's  lef 
Arter  this  (I  mus'  call  it)  imprudence 

o'  Jeff : 
For  a  real  good  Abuse,  with  its  roots 

fur  an'  wide, 
Is  the  kin'  o'  thing  /  like  to  hev  on  my 

side  ; 
A  Scriptur'  name  makes  it  ez  sweet  ez 

a  rose, 
An'  it 's  tougher  the  older  an'  uglier  it 

grows  — 
(I  ain't  speakin'  now  c'  thj  righteous- 
ness of  it, 


But  *'-e  p'litickle  purchase  it  gives  an* 

the  profit). 

Things  look  pooty  squally,  it  must  be 

allowed, 
An'  I  don't  see  much  signs  of  a  bow  in 

the  cloud  : 
Ther'  's  too  many  Deemocrats — lead- 
ers wut 's  wuss  — 
Thet  go  for  the  Union 'thoutcarin'  acuss 
Ef  it  helps  ary  party   thet   ever  wuz 

heard  on, 
So  our  eagle  ain't  made  a  split  Austrian 

bird  on. 
But    ther'  's    still    some    consarvative 

signs  to  be  found 
Thet  shows  the  gret  heart  o'  the  People 

is  sound  : 
(Excuse  me  for  usin'  a  stump-phrase 

agin. 
But,  once  in  the  way  on  't,  they  will 

stick  like  sin  :) 
There  's  Phillips,  for  instance,  hez  jes' 

ketched  a  Tartar 
In    the    Law-'n'-Order   Party    of  ole 

Cincinnater  ; 
An'  the  Compromise  System  ain't  gone 

out  o'  reach, 
Long  'z  you  keep  the  right  limits  on 

freedom  o'  speech. 
'T  warn't  none   too  late,   neither,   to 

put  on  the  gag, 
For  he  's  dangerous  now  he  goes  in  for 

the  flag 
Nut  thet  I  altogether  approve  o'  bad 

eggs, 
They  're  mos'  gin'lly  argymunt  on  its 

las'  legs,  — 
An'  their  logic   is  ept   to  be  tu  indis- 
criminate, 
Nor  don't  ollus  wait  the  right  objecs  to 

'liminate  ; 
But  there  is  a  variety  on  'em,  you  '11 

find, 
Jest  ez  usefle  an*  more,  besides  bein' 

refined,  — 
I  mean  o'  the  sort  thet  are  laid  by  the 

dictionary, 
Sech    ez    sophisms   an'    cant,   thet  '11 

kerry  conviction  ary 
Way  thet  you  want  to  the  right  class  o' 

men, 
At.'   are   staler   than   all 't  ever  come 

frun  a  hen : 


»96 


THE   B I  GLOW  PAPERS. 


"  Disunion "   done  wal   till    our  resh 

Southun  friends 
Took  the  savor  all  out  on  't  for  national 

ends ; 
But  I  guess  "  Abolition  "  '11  work  a 

spell  yit, 
When    the    war's   done,   an'   so    will 

"  Forgive-an'-forgit." 
Times  mus'  be  pooty  thoroughly  out  o' 

all  jint, 
Ef  we  can't  make  a  good  constitootional 

pint  ; 
An'    the    good    time  '11    come  to    be 

grindin'  our  exes, 
When  the  war  goes  to  seed  in  the  nettle 

o'  texes  : 
Ef  Jon'than   don't  squirm,  with  sech 

helps  to  assist  him, 
I  give  up  my  faith  in  the  free-suffrage 

system  ; 
Democ'cy  wun't   be  nut   a    mite   in- 

terestin', 
Nor  p'litikle  capital   much  wuth    in- 

vestin' ; 
An'  my  notion  is,  to  keep  dark  an'  lay 

low 
Till  we  see  the  right  minute  to  put  in 

our  blow.  — 

But  I  've  talked  longer  now  'n  I  hed 

any  idee, 
An'  ther'  's  others  you  want  to  hear 

more  'n  you  du  me  ; 
So  I  '11  set   down  an'  give  thet  'ere 

bottle  a  skrimmage, 
For  I  've  spoke  till  I  'm  dry  ez  a  real 

graven  image. 


No.   VI. 

SUNTHIN'  IN  THE  PASTORAL 
LINE. 

TO    THE    EDITORS    OF    THE    ATLANTIC 
MONTHLY. 

JAALAM,  17th  May,  1862. 

Gentlemen,  —  At  the  special  re- 
quest of  Mr.  Biglow,  I  intended  to  in- 
close, together  with  his  own  contribu- 
tion, (into  which,  at  my  suggestion,  he 


has  thrown  a  little  more  of  pastoral 
sentiment  than  usual,)  some  passages 
from  my  sermon  on  the  day  of  the  Na- 
tional Fast,  from  the  text,  "  Remember 
them  that  are  in  bonds,  as  bound  with 
them,"  Heb.  xiii.  3.  But  I  have  not 
leisure  sufficient  at  present  for  the  copy- 
ing of  them,  even  were  I  altogether  sat- 
isfied with  the  production  as  it  stands. 
I  should  prefer,  I  confess,  to  contribute 
the  entire  discourse  to  the  pages  of 
your  respectable  miscellany,  if  it  should 
be  found  acceptable  upon  perusal,  es- 
pecially as  I  find  the  difficulty  of  selec- 
tion of  greater  magnitude  than  I  had 
anticipated.  What  passes  without 
challenge  in  the  fervour  of  oral  delivery, 
cannot  always  stand  the  colder  criticism 
of  the  closet.  I  am  not  so  great  an  en- 
emy of  Eloquence  as  my  friend  Mr. 
Biglow  would  appear  to  be  from  some 
passages  in  his  contribution  for  the  cur- 
rent month.  I  would  not,  indeed, 
hastily  suspect  him  of  covertly  glancing 
at  myself  in  his  somewhat  caustick  ani- 
madversions, albeit  some  of  the  phrases 
he  girds  at  are  not  entire  strangers 
to  my  lips.  I  am  a  more  hearty  ad- 
mirer of  the  Puritans  than  seems  now 
to  be  the  fashion,  and  believe,  that,  if 
they  Hebraized  a  little  too  much  in 
their  speech,  they  showed  remarkable 
practical  sagacity  as  statesmen  and 
founders.  But  such  phenomena  as  Pu- 
ritanism are  the  results  rather  of  great 
religious  than  merely  social  convul- 
sions, and  do  not  long  survive  them. 
So  soon  as  an  earnest  conviction  has 
cooled  into  a  phrase,  its  work  is  over, 
and  the  best  that  can  be  done  with  it  is 
to  bury  it.  He,  missa  est.  I  am  in- 
clined to  agree  with  Mr.  Biglow  that 
we  cannot  settle  the  great  political 
questions  which  are  now  presenting 
themselves  to  the  nation  by  the  opin- 
ions of  Jeremiah  or  Ezekiel  as  to  the 
wants  and  duties  of  the  Jews  in  their 
time,  nor  do  I  believe  that  an  entire 
community  with  their  feelings  and 
views  would  be  practicable  or  even 
agreeable  at  the  present  day.  At  the 
same  time  I  could  wish  that  their  habit 
of  subordinating  the  actual  to  the 
moral,  the  flesh  to  the  spirit,  and  this 


THE  B I  GLOW  PAPERS. 


297 


world  to  the  other,  were  more  common. 
They  had  found  out,  at  least,  the  great 
military  secret  that  soul  weighs  more 
than  body.  —  But  I  am  suddenly  called 
to  a  sick-bed  in  the  household  of  a  val- 
ued parishioner. 

With  esteem  and  respect, 

Your  obedient  servant, 

Homer  Wilbur. 


Once  git  a  smell  o'  musk  into  a  draw, 
An'  it  clings  hold  like  precerdents  in 

law  : 
Your  gra'ma'am  put  it  there,  —  when, 

goodness  knows,  — 
To  jes'  this-worldify  her  Sunday-clo'es  ; 
But  the  old  chist  wun't  sarve  her  gran'- 

son's  wife, 
(For,  'thout  new  funnitoor,  wut  good  in 

life  ?) 
An'  so  ole  clawfoot,  from  the  precinks 

dread 
O'  the  spare  chamber,  slinks  into  the 

shed, 
Where,  dim  with  dust,  it  fust  or  last 

subsides 
To  holdin'  seeds  an'  fifty  things  be- 
sides ; 
But  better  days  stick  fast  in  heart  an' 

husk, 
An'  all  you  keep  in  't  gits  a  scent  o' 

musk. 

Jes'  so  with  poets :  wut  they  've  airly 

read 
Gits  kind  o'  worked  into  their  heart  an' 

head, 
So  's  't  they  can't  seem  to  write  but  jest 

on  sheers 
With   furrin    countries    or    played-out 

ideers, 
Nor  hev  a  feelin',  ef  it  doos  n't  smack 
O'  wut  some  critter  chose  to  feel  'way 

back  : 
This  makes  'em  talk  o'  daisies,  larks, 

an'  things, 
Ez    though    we  'd  nothin'    here    that 

blows  an'  sings,  — 
(Why,  I  'd  give  more  for  one  live  bobo- 
link 
Than  a  square  mile  o'  larks  in  printer's 

ink,)  — 


This  makes  'em  think  our  fust  o'  May 

is  May, 
Which  't  ain't,  for  all  the  almanicks  can 

say. 

0  little  city-gals,  don't  never  go  it 
Blind  on  the  word  o'  noospaper  or  poet ! 
They  're  apt  to  puff,  an'  May-day  sel- 
dom looks 

Up  in  the  country  ez  it  doos  in  books  ; 

They  're  no  more  like  than  hornets'- 
nests  an'  hives, 

Or  printed  sarmons  be  to  holy  lives. 

I,  with  my  trouses  perched  on  cow- 
hide boots, 

Tuggin'  my  foundered  feet  out  by  the 
roots, 

Hev  seen  ye  come  to  fling  on  Ajiril's 
hearse 

Your  muslin  nosegays  from  the  mil- 
liner's, 

Puzzlin'  to  find  dry  ground  your  queen 
to  choose, 

An'  dance  your  throats  sore  in  morock- 
er  shoes  : 

1  've  seen  ye  an'  felt  proud,  thet,  come 

wut  would, 
Our   Pilgrim    stock   wuz   pithed   with 

hardihood. 
Pleasure  doos  make  us  Yankees  kind 

o'  winch, 
Ez  though  't  wuz  sunthin'  paid  for  by 

the  inch  ; 
But  yit  we  du  contrive  to  worry  thru, 
Ef  Dooty  tells  us  thet  the  thing  's  to 

du, 
An'  kerry  a  hollerday,  ef  we  set  out, 
Ez  stiddily  ez  though  't  wuz  a  redoubt. 

I,  country-born  an'  bred,  know  where 
to  find 

Some  blooms  thet  make  the  season  suit 
the  mind, 

An'  seem  to  metch  the  doubtin'  blue- 
bird's notes,  — 

Half-vent'rin'  liverworts  in  furry  coats, 

Bloodroots,  whose  rolled-up  leaves  ef 
you  oncurl, 

Each  on  'em  's  cradle  to  a  baby-pearl,— 

But  these  are  jes'  Spring's  pickets ; 
sure  ez  sin, 

The  rebble  frosts  Ml  try  to  drive  'em  in  ; 

For  half  our  May  's  so  awfully  like 
May  n't, 


298 


THE   BIGLOIV  PAPERS. 


'T  would  rile  a  Shaker  or  an  evrige 

saint ; 
Though  I  own  up  I  like  our  back'ard 

springs 
Thet  kind  o'  haggle  with  their  greens 

an'  things, 
An'  when  you   'most  give  up,  'ithout 

more  words 
Toss  the  fields  full  o'  blossoms,  leaves, 

an'  birds  : 
Thet  's  Northun  natur',  slow  an'  apt  to 

doubt, 
But  when  it  doos  git  stirred,  ther'  's  no 

gin-out  1 

Fust  come  the  blackbirds  clatt'rin'  in 
tall  trees, 

An'  settlin'  things  in  windy  Congress- 
es,— 

Queer  politicians,  though,  for  I  '11  be 
skinned 

Ef  all  on  'em  don't  head  against  the 
wind. 

'Fore  long  the  trees  begin  to  show  be- 
lief, — 

The  maple  crimsons  to  a  coral-reef, 

Then  saffern  swarms  swing  off  from  all 
the  willers 

So  plump  they  look  like  yaller  caterpil- 
lars, 

Then  gray  hossches'nuts  leetle  hands 
unfold 

Softer  'n  a  baby's  be  at  three  days  old  : 

Thet  's  robin-redbreast's  almanick  ;  he 
knows 

Thet  arter  this  ther'  's  only  blossom- 
snows  : 

So,  choosin'  out  a  handy  crotch  an' 
spouse, 

He  goes  to  plast'rin'  his  adobe  house. 

Then  seems  to  come  a  hitch,  —  things 
lag  behind, 

Till  some  fine  momin'  Spring  makes 
up  her  mind, 

An'  ez,  when  snow-swelled  rivers  cresh 
their  dams 

Heaped-up  with  ice  thet  dovetails  in 
an'  jams, 

A  leak  comes  spirtin'  thru  some  pin- 
hole cleft, 

Grows  stronger,  fercer,  tears  out  right 
an'  left, 


Then   all  the   waters  bow  themselves 

an'  come, 
Suddin,  in  one  gret  slope  o'  shedderin' 

foam, 
Jes'  so  our  Spring  gits  everythiu'  in 

tune 
An'  gives  one  leap  from  April  into  June  : 
Then  all  comes  crowdin'  in  ;  afore  you 

think, 
Young  oak-leaves  mist    the    side-hi" 

woods  with  pink ; 
The  catbird  in  the  laylock-bush  is  loud  ; 
The   orchards   turn   to   heaps  o'  rosy 

cloud ; 
Red-cedars    blossom    tu,   though  few 

folks  know  it, 
An'  look   all  dipt  in  sunshine  like  a 

poet ; 
The  lime-trees  pile  their  solid  stacks  n' 

shade 
An'   drows'ly  simmer  with  the  bees' 

sweet  trade  ; 
In  ellum-shrouds  the  flashin'  hangbird 

clings 
An'  for  the   summer  vy'ge  his  ham- 
mock slings  ; 
All   down   the   loose-walled    lanes    in 

archin'  bowers 
The  barb'ry  droops  its  strings  o*  golden 

flowers, 
Whose  shrinkin'  hearts  the  school-gals 

love  to  try 
With  pins,  —  they  '11  worry  yourn  so, 

boys,  bimeby ! 
But  I  don't  love  your  cat'logue  style,  — 

do  you  ?  — 
Ez  ef  to  sell  off  Natur'  by  vendoo ; 
One  word  with  blood  in  't  's  twice  ez 

good  ez  two  : 
'Nuff  sed,  June's  bridesman,  poet  o' 

the  year, 
Gladness   on   wings,   the  bobolink,  is 

here  ; 
Half-hid  in   tip-top  apple-blooms    ha 

swings, 
Or  climbs  aginst  the  breeze  with  quiv- 

erin'  wings, 
Or,  givin'  way  to  't  in  a  mock  despair, 
Runs  down,  a  brook  o'  laughter,  thru 

the  air. 

I  ollus  feel  the  sap  start  in  my  veins 
In  Spring,  with  curus  heats  an'  prickly 
pain  >, 


THE  BIGLOIV  PAPERS. 


209 


Thet  drive  me,  when  I  git  a  chance,  to 

walk 
Off  by  myself  to  hev  a  privit  talk 
With  a  queer  critter  thet  can't  seem  to 

'gree 
Along  o'  me  like  most   folks,  —  Mister 

Me. 
Ther'  's  times  when  I  'm  unsoshle  ez  a 

stone, 
An'  sort  o'  suffocate  to  be  alone,  — 
I  'm  crowded  jes'  to  think  thet  folks  are 

nigh, 
An'  can't  bear  nothin'  closer  than  the 

sky  ; 
Now  the  wind  's  full  ez  shifty  in  the 

mind 
Ez  wut  it  is  ou'-doors,  ef  I  ain't  blind, 
An'  sometimes,  in  the  fairest  sou'west 

weather, 
My  innard  vane  pints  east  for  weeks 

together. 
My  natur'  gits  all  goose-flesh,  an'  my 

sins 
Come  drizzlin'  on  my  conscience  sharp 

ez  pins  : 
Wal,  et  sech  times  I  jes'  slip  out  o' 

sight 
An'  take  it  out  in  a  fair  stan'-up  fight 
With  the  one  cuss  I  can't  lay  on  the 

shelf, 
The  crook'dest  stick  in  all  the  heap,  — 

Myself. 

'T  wuz  so  las'  Sabbath  arter  meetin'- 

time  : 
Findin'  my  feelin's  would  n't  noways 

rhyme 
With  nobody's,  but  off  the  hendle  flew 
An'  took  things  from  an  east-wind  pint 

o'  view, 
I  started  off  to  lose  me  in  the  hills 
Where  the  pines  be,  up  back  o'  'Siah's 

Mills  : 
Pines,  ef  you  're  blue,  are  the  best  friends 

I  know, 
They  mope  an'  sigh  an'  sheer  your  feel- 
in's so,  — 
They  hesh  the  ground  beneath  so,  tu,  I 

swan, 
Vou  half-forgit  you  've  gut  a  body  on. 
Ther'  's  a  small  school'us'  there  where 

four  roads  meet, 
The  door-steps  hollered  out  by  little 

feet, 


An'  side-posts  carved  with  names  whose 

owners  grew 
To  gret  men,  some  on  'em,  an'  deacons, 

tu  ; 
'T  ain't  used  no  longer,  coz  the  town 

hez  gut 
A  high-school,  where   they  teach  the 

Lord  knows  wut  : 
Three-story  larnin'  's  pop'lar  now ;  I 

guess 
We  thriv'  ez  wal   on  jes'  two   stories 

less. 
For  it  strikes  me  ther'  's  sech  a  thing 

ez  sinnin' 
By    overloadin'    children's    underpin- 

nin' : 
Wal,  here  it  wuz  I  larned  my  ABC, 
An'  it's  a  kind  o'  favorite  spot  with 

me. 

We  're  curus  critters :  Now  ain't  jes' 

the  minute 
Thet  ever  fits  us  easy  while  we  're  in 

it; 
Long  ez  't  wuz  futur',  't  would  be  per- 
fect bliss,  — 
Soon  ez  it 's  past,  thet  time  's  wuth  ten 

o'  this; 
An'  yit  there  ain't  a  man  thet  need  be 

told 
Thet  Now  's  the  only  bird  lays  eggs  o' 

gold. 
A  knee-high  lad,  I  used  to  plot  an'  plan 
An'  think  't  wuz  life's  cap-sheaf  to  be  a 

man  ; 
Now,  gittin'  gray,  there  's  nothin'  I 

enjoy 
Like  dreamin'  back  along  into  a  boy  : 
So  the  ole  school'us'  is  a  place  I  choose 
Afore  all  others,  ef  I  want  to  muse  ; 
I  set  down  where  I  used  to  set,  an'  git 
My  boyhood   back,  an'   better  things 

with  it,  — 
Faith,  Hope,  an'  sunthin',  ef  it  is  n't 

Cherrity, 
It 's  want  o'  guile,  an  thet 's  ez  gret  a. 

rerrity,  — 
While  Fancy's  Cushin',  free  to  Prince 

and  Clown, 
Makes  the  hard  bench  ez  soft  ez  milk- 
weed-down. 

Now,   'fore   I   knowed,   thet   Sabbath 
afternoon 


3°° 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


Thet  I  sot  out  to  tramp  myself  in  tune, 
I  found  me   in   the  school'us'   on   my 

seat, 
Drummin'  the  march  to  No-wheres  with 

my  feet 
Thinkin'   o'  nothin',   I  've  heerd  ole 

folks  say 
Is  a  hard  kind  o'  dooty  in  its  way  : 
It 's  thinkin'  everythin'  you  ever  knew, 
Or  ever   hearn,  to  make  your  feelin's 

blue. 
I  sot  there  tryin'  thet  on  for  a  spell  : 
I   thought  o'   the  Rebellion,  then   o' 

Hell, 
Which  some  folks  tell  ye  now  is  jest  a 

metterfor 
(A  the'ry,  p'raps,  it  wun't/^/none  the 

better  for) : 
I  thought  o'  Reconstruction,  wut  we  'd 

win 
Patchin'  our  patent  self-blow-up  agin  : 
I.thought  ef  this  'ere   milkin'  o'   the 

wits, 
So  much  a  month,  warn't  givin'  Natur' 

fits,  — 
Ef  folks  warn't  druv,  findin'  their  own 

milk  fail, 
To  work  the  cow  thet  hez  an  iron  tail, 
An'  ef  idees  'thout  ripenin'  in  the  pan 
Would  send  up  cream  to  humor  ary 

man  : 
From  this  to  thet   I   let  my  worryin' 

creep, 
Till  finally  I  must  ha'  fell  asleep. 

Our  lives  in  sleep  are  some  like  streams 

thet  glide 
'Twixt  flesh  an'  sperrit  boundin'  on  each 

side, 
Where  both  shores'  shadders  kind  o' 

mix  an'  mingle 
In  sunthin'  thet  ain't  jes'  like  either 

single  ; 
An'  when  you  cast  off  moorin's  from 

To-day, 
An'    down     towards    To-morrer    drift 

away, 
The  imiges  thet  tengle  on  the  stream 
Make  a  new  upside-down'ard  world  o' 

dream  : 
Sometimes    they    seem    like    sunrise- 
streaks  an'  warnin's 
0'  win  '11  be  in  Heaven  on  Sabbath- 

mornin's, 


An',  mixed  right  in  ez  ef  jest  out  o- 

spite, 
Sunthin'  thet  says  your  supper  ain't 

gone  right. 
I  'm  gret  on  dreams,  an'  often  when  I 

wake, 
I  've  lived  so  much  it  makes  my  roem'ry 

ache, 
An'  can't  skurce  take  a  cat-nap  in  my 

cheer 
'Thout  hevin'   'em,  some  good,  some 

bad,  all  queer. 


Now  I  wuz  settin'  where  I  'd  ben,  it 

seemed, 
An'  ain't  sure  yit    whether    I    r'ally 

dreamed, 
Nor,  ef  I  did,  how  long  I  might  ha' 

slep', 
When  I  hearn  some  un  stompin'  up  the 

step, 
An'  lookin'  round,  ef  two  an'  two  make 

four, 
I  see  a  Pilgrim  Father  in  the  door. 
He  wore  a  steeple-hat,  tall  boots,  an' 

spurs 
With  rowels  to  'em  big  ez   ches'nut- 

burrs, 
An'  his  gret  sword  behind  him  sloped 

away 
Long  'z  a  man's  speech  thet  dunno  wut 

to  say.  — 
"  Ef  ^our   name  's    Biglow,   an'   your 

given-name 
Hosee,"  sez  he,  "  it 'sarteryou  I  came  ; 
I  'm  your  gret-gran'ther  multiplied  by 

three."  — 
"  My  wut  ?  "  sez  I.  —  "  Your  gret-gret- 

gret,"  sez  he  : 
"  You  would  n't  ha'  never  ben  here  but 

for  me. 
Two  hundred  an'  three  year  ago  this 

May 
The  ship  I  come  in  sailed  up  Boston 

Bay; 
I  'd  been  a  cunnle  in  our  Civil  War,  — 
But  wut  on  airth  hev  you  gut  up  one 

for? 
Coz  we  du  things  in  England,  't  ain't  for 

you 
To  git  a  notion  you  can  du  'em  tu  : 
I  'm  told  you  write  in  public  prints  :  ef 

true, 


THE   B I  GLOW  PAPERS. 


301 


*t  's  nateral  you  should  know  a  thing 

or  two."  — 
"  Thet   air's  an  argymunt  I  can't  en- 
dorse, — 
'T  would  prove,  coz  you  wear  spurs, 

you  kep'  a  horse  : 
For  brains,"  sez  I,  "  wutever  you  may 

think, 
Ain't  boun' to  cash  the  drafs  o'  pen-an'- 

ink,  — 
Though   mos'   folks  write  ez  ef  they 

hoped  jes'  quickenin' 
The  churn  would  argoo  skim-milk  into 

thickenin'  ; 
But  skim-milk  ain't  a  thing  to  change 

its  view 
O'  wut  it 's  meant  for  more  'n  a  smoky 

flue. 
But   du  pray  tell  me,  'fore  we  furder 

go. 
How  in  all  Natur'  did  you  come  to 

know 
'Bout  our  affairs,"  sez  I,  "  in  Kingdom- 
Come?" — 
"  Wal,  I  worked  round  at  sperrit-rap- 

pin'  some, 
An'   danced  the  tables  till   their  legs 

wuz  gone, 
In  hopes  o'  larnin'  wut  wuz  goin'  on," 
Sez  he,    "  but  mejums  lie  so  like  all- 
split 
Thet  I  concluded  it  wuz  best  to  quit. 
But,  come  now,  ef  you  wun't  confess 

to  knowin', 
You  've    some    conjectures    how  the 

thing 's  a-goin'."  — 
"Gran'ther,"    sez   I,  "a  vane  warn't 

never  known 
Nor  asked  to   hev  a  jedgment  of  its 

own  ; 
An'  yit,  eft  ain't  gut  rusty  in  the  jints, 
It 's  safe  to  trust  its  say  on  certin  pints: 
It  knows  the  wind's  opinions  to  a  T, 
An'  the  wind  settles  wut  the  weather  '11 

be." 
"  I  never  thought  a  scion  of  our  stock 
Could    grow    the    wood    to    make    a 

weathercock  : 
When   I  wuz  younger  'n  you,  skurce 

more  'n  a  shaver, 
No  airthly  wind,"  sez  he,  "  could  make 

me  waver  t " 
(Ez  he  said  this,  he  clinched  his  jaw  an' 

forehead, 


Hitchin'  his  belt  to  bring  his  sword- 
hilt  forrard.)  — 

"  Jes'  so  it  wuz  with  me,"  sex  I,  "  I 
swow, 

When  /  wuz  younger  'n  wut  you  see 
me  now,  — 

Nothin'  from  Adam's  fall  to  Huldy's 
bonnet, 

Thet  I  warn't  full-cocked  with  my  jedg- 
ment on  it  : 

But  now  I  'm  gittin'  on  in  life,  I  find 

It 's  a  sight  harder  to  make  up  my 
mind,  — 

Nor  I  don't  often  try  tu,  when  events 

Will  du  it  for  me  free  of  all  expense. 

The  moral  question  's  ollus  plain 
enough,  — 

It 's  jes'  the  human-natur'  side  thet 's 
tough  ; 

Wut 's  best  to  think  may  n't  puzzle  me 
nor  you,  — 

The  pinch  comes  in  decidin'  wut  to 
du ; 

Ef  you  read  History,  all  runs  smooth 
ez  grease, 

Coz  there  the  men  ain't  nothin'  more  'n 
idees,  — 

But  come  to  make  it,  ez  we  must  to- 
day, 

Th'  idees  hev  arms  an'  legs  an*  stop 
the  way  : 

It 's  easy  fixin'  things  in  facts  an'  Ag- 
gers, — 

They  can't  resist,  nor  warn't  brought 
up  with  niggers ; 

But  come  to  try  your  the'ry  on,  —  why, 
then 

Your  facts  an'  Aggers  change  to  ign'ant 
men 

Actin'  ez  ugly  —  "  —  "Smite  'em  hip 
an'  thigh  !" 

Sez  gran'ther,  "and  let  every  man- 
child  die ! 

Oh  for  three  weeks  o'  Crommle  an'  the 
Lord! 

Up,  Isr'el,  to  your  tents  an'  grind  the 
sword  !  "  — 

"  Thet  kind  o'  thing  worked  wal  in  ole 
Judee, 

But  you  forgit  how  long  it 's  ben  A.  D.  : 

You  think  thet 's  ellerkence,  —  I  call  it 
shoddy, 

A  thing,"  sez  I,  "wun't  cover  soul  nor 
body; 


3oa 


THE  B I  GLOW  PAPERS. 


I  like   the  plain  all-wool  o'  common- 
sense, 
Thet  warms  ye  now,  an'  will  a  twelve- 
month hence. 
You  took  to  follerin'  where  the  Proph- 
ets beckoned, 
An',  fust  you  knowed  on,  back  come 

Charles  the  Second  ; 
Now  wut  I  want  's  to  hev  all  we  gain 

stick, 
An'  not  to  start  Millennium  too  quick  ; 
We  hain't  to  punish  only,  but  to  keep, 
An'   the  cure   's  gut   to  go  a  cent'ry 

deep." 
"  Wal,  milk-an'-water  ain't  the  best  o' 

glue," 
Sez  he,  "  an'  so  you'll  find  before  you 

're  thru ; 
Ef  reshness  venters  sunthin',   shilly- 
shally 
Loses  ez  often  wut   's  ten  times  the 

vally. 
Thet  exe  of  ourn,  when  Charles's  neck 

gut  split, 
Opened  a  gap  thet  ain't  bridged  over 

yit: 
Slav'ry  's  your  Charles,  the  Lord  hez 

gin  the  exe  —  "  — 
"Our  Charles,"  sez  I,  "hez  gut  eight 

million  necks. 
The  hardest  question  ain't  the  black 

man's  right, 
The  trouble  is  to  'mancipate  the  white  : 
One  's  chained  in  body  an'  can  be  sot 

free, 
But   t'other  's  chained  in   soul  to  an 

idee : 
It  's  a  long  job,  but  we  shall  worry  thru 

it  : 
Ef  bagnets  fail,  the  spellin'-book  must 

du  it." 
"  Hosee,"   sez  he,   "  I   think   you  're 

goin'  to  fail  : 
The  rettlesnake  ain't  dangerous  in  the 

tail  ; 
This  'ere  rebellion  's  nothin'  but  the 

rettle,  — 
You  Ml  stomp  on  thet  an'  think  you  've 

won  the  bettle  ; 
It  's  Slavery  thet 's  the  fangs  an'  think- 
in'  head, 
An'   ef  you  want  selvation,   cresh   it 

dead,  — 
An'  cresh  it  suddin,  or  you  Ml  lam  by 
waitin' 


Thet   Chance  wun't  stop  to  listen   to 

debatin'  !  — 
"God's   truth  1"   sez   I, —"an'   ef  / 

held  the  club, 
An'   knowed   jes'   where   to   strike,  — 

but  there  's  the  rub  !  "  — 
"  Strike  soon,"  sez  he,  "  or  you  Ml  be 

deadly  ailin',  — 
Folks  thet  's  afeared  to  fail  are  sure  o' 

failin' ; 
God  hates  your  sneakin'  creturs  thet 

believe 
He  Ml  settle  things  they  run  away  an' 

leave  !  " 
He  brought  his  foot  down  fercely,  ez 

he  spoke. 
An'  give  me  sech  a  startle  thet  I  woke. 


No.  VII. 

LATEST   VIEWS    OF  MR.  BIG- 
LOW. 

PRELIMINARY    NOTE. 

[It  is  with  feelings  of  the  liveliest 
pain  that  we  inform  our  readers  of  the 
death  of  the  Reverend  Homer  Wilbur, 
A.  M.,  which  took  place  suddenly,  by 
an  apoplectic  stroke,  on  the  afternoon 
of  Christmas  day,  1862.  Our  venera- 
ble friend  (for  so  we  may  venture  to 
call  him,  though  we  never  enjoyed  the 
high  privilege  of  his  personal  acquaint- 
ance) was  in  his  eighty-fourth  year, 
having  been  born  June  12,  1779,  at 
Pigsgusset  Precinct  (now  West  Jeru- 
sha)  in  the  then  District  of  Maine. 
Graduated  with  distinction  at  Hubville 
College  in  1805,  he  pursued  his  theo- 
logical studies  with  the  late  Reverend 
Preserved  Thacker,  D.  D.,  and  was 
called  to  the  charge  of  the  First  So- 
ciety in  Jaalam  in  1809,  where  he  re- 
mained till  his  death. 

"  As  an  antiquary  he  has  probably 
left  no  superior,  if,  indeed,  an  equal," 
writes  his  friend  and  colleague,  the 
Reverend  Jeduthun  Hitchcock,  to 
whom  we  are  indebted  for  the  above 
facts  ;  "  in  proof  of  which  I  need  only 
allude  to  his  '  History  of  Jaalam, 
Genealogical,  Topographical,  and  Ee- 


THE   BIGLOIV  PAPERS. 


3°1 


clesiastical,'  1849,  which  has  won  him 
an  eminent  and  enduring  place  in  our 
more  solid  and  useful  literature.  It  is 
only  to  be  regretted  that  his  intense 
application  to  historical  studies  should 
have  so  entirely  withdrawn  him  from 
the  pursuit  of  poetical  composition,  for 
which  he  was  endowed  by  Nature  with 
a  remarkable  aptitude.  His  well-known 
hymn,  beginning,  '  With  clouds  of  care 
encompassed  round,'  has  been  attrib- 
uted in  some  collections  to  the  late 
President  Dwight,  and  it  is  hardly  pre- 
sumptuous to  affirm  that  the  simile  of 
the  rainbow  in  the  eighth  stanza  would 
do  no  discredit  to  that  polished  pen." 

We  regret  that  we  have  not  room  at 
present  for  the  whole  of  Mr.  Hitch- 
cock's exceedingly  valuable  communi- 
cation- We  hope  to  lay  more  liberal 
extracts  from  it  before  our  readers  at 
an  early  day.  A  summary  of  its  con- 
tents will  give  some  notion  of  its  im- 
portance and  interest.  It  contains  : 
1st,  A  biographical  sketch  of  Mr.  Wil- 
bur, with  notices  of  his  predecessors  in 
the  pastoral  office,  and  of  eminent  cler- 
ical contemporaries  ;  2d,  An  obituary 
of  deceased,  from  the  Punkin- Falls 
"  Weekly  Parallel"  ;  3d,  A  list  of  his 
printed  and  manuscript  productions 
and  of  projected  works  ;  4th,  Personal 
anecdotes  and  recollections,  with  speci- 
mens of  table-talk  ;  5th,  A  tribute  to 
his  relict,  Mrs.  Dorcas  (Pilcox)  Wil- 
bur ;  6th,  A  list  of  graduates  fitted  for 
different  colleges  by  Mr.  Wilbur,  with 
biographical  memoranda  touching  the 
more  distinguished  ;  7th,  Concerning 
learned,  charitable,  and  other  societies, 
of  which  Mr.  Wilbur  was  a  member, 
and  of  those  with  which,  had  his  life 
been  prolonged,  he  would  doubtless 
have  been  associated,  with  a  complete 
catalogue  of  such  Americans  as  have 
been  Fellows  of  the  Royal  Society  ; 
8th,  A  brief  summary  of  Mr.  Wilbur's 
latest  conclusions  concerning  the  Tenth 
Horn  of  the  Beast  in  its  special  appli- 
cation to  recent  events  for  which  the 
public,  as  Mr.  Hitchcock  assures  us, 
have  been  waiting  with  feelings  of  live- 
ly anticipation  ;  9th,  Mr.  Hitchcock's 
Own  views  on  the  same  topic  ;    and, 


10th,  A  brief  essay  on  the  importance 
of  local  histories.  It  will  be  apparent 
that  the  duty  of  preparing  Mr  Wil- 
bur's biography  could  not  have  fallen 
into  more  sympathetic  hands. 

In  a  private  letter  with  which  the 
reverend  gentleman  has  since  favored 
us,  he  expresses  the  opinion  that  Mr. 
Wilbur's  life  was  shortened  by  our 
unhappy  civil  war.  It  disturbed  his 
studies,  dislocated  all  his  habitual  asso- 
ciations and  trains  of  thought,  and  un- 
settled the  foundations  of  a  faith,  rather 
the  result  of  habit  than  conviction,  in 
the  capacity  of  man  for  self-government. 
"  Such  has  been  the  felicity  of  my  life," 
he  said  to  Mr.  Hitchcock,  on  the  very 
morning  of  the  day  he  died,  "that, 
through  the  divine  mercy,  I  could  al- 
ways say,  Sumnuim  nee  metuo  diem, 
nee  opto.  It  has  been  my  habit,  as  you 
know,  on  every  recurrence  of  this 
blessed  anniversary,  to  read  Milton's 
'Hymn  of  the  Nativity'  till  its  sublime 
harmonies  so  dilated  my  soul  and  quick- 
ened its  spiritual  sense  that  I  seemed  to 
hear  that  other  song  which  gave  assur- 
ance to  the  shepherds  that  there  was 
One  who  would  lead  them  also  in  green 
pastures  and  beside  the  still  waters. 
But  to-day  I  have  been  unable  to  think 
of  anything  but  that  mournful  text,  '  I 
came  not  to  send  peace,  but  a  sword,' 
and,  did  it  not  smack  of  pagan  pre- 
sumptuousness,  could  almost  wish  I 
had  never  lived  to  see  this  day." 

Mr.  Hitchcock  also  informs  us  that 
his  friend  "lies  buried  in  the  Jaalam 
graveyard,  under  a  large  red-cedar 
which  he  specially  admired.  A  neat 
and  substantial  monument  is  to  be 
erected  over  his  remains,  with  a  Latin 
epitaph  written  by  himself;  for  he  was 
accustomed  to  say,  pleasantly,  'that 
there  was  at  least  one  occasion  in  a 
scholar's  life  when  he  might  show  the 
advantages  of  a  classical  training.'  " 

The  following  fragment  of  a  letter 
addressed  to  us,  and  apparently  in- 
tended to  accompany  Mr.  Biglow's 
contribution  to  the  present  number, 
was  found  upon  his  table  after  his  de- 
cease.—  Editors  Atlantic  Month- 
ly.] 


3°4 


THE   BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


TO  THE  EDITORS  OF  THE  ATLANTIC 
MONTHLY. 

JAALAM,  24th  Dec,  1862. 

Respected  Sirs,  — The  infirm  state 
of  my  bodily  health  would  be  a  suffi- 
cient apology  for  not  taking  up  the  pen 
at  this  time,  wholesome  as  I  deem  it  for 
the  mind  to  apricate  in  the  shelter  of 
epistolary  confidence,  were  it  not  that  a 
considerable,  I  might  even  say  a  large, 
number  of  individuals  in  this  parish  ex- 
pect from  their  pastor  some  publick  ex- 
pression of  sentiment  at  this  crisis. 
Moreover,  Qui  tacitus  ardet  magis 
uritur.  In  trying  times  like  these,  the 
besetting  sin  of  undisciplined  minds  is 
to  seek  refuge  from  inexplicable  reali- 
ties in  the  dangerous  stimulant  of  an- 
gry partisanship  or  the  indolent  narcot- 
ick  of  vague  and  hopeful  vaticination  : 
fortuftamque  suo  temperat  arbitrio. 
Roth  by  reason  of  my  age  and  my  nat- 
ural temperament,  I  am  unfitted  for 
either.  Unable  to  penetrate  the  in- 
scrutable judgments  of  God,  I  am  more 
than  ever  thankful  that  my  life  has  been 
prolonged  till  I  could  in  some  small 
measure  comprehend  His  mercy.  As 
there  is  no  man  who  does  not  at  some 
time  render  himself  amenable  to  the 
one,  —  quum  vix  Justus  sit  securus,  — 
so  there  is  none  that  does  not  feel  him- 
self in  daily  need  of  the  other. 

I  confess,  I  cannot  feel,  as  some  do, 
a  personal  consolation  for  the  manifest 
evils  of  this  war  in  any  remote  or  con- 
tingent advantages  that  may  spring 
from  it.  I  am  old  and  weak,  I  can  bear 
little,  and  can  scarce  hope  to  see  better 
days  ;  nor  is  it  any  adequate  compensa- 
tion to  know  that  Nature  is  old  and 
strong  and  can  bear  much.  Old  men 
philosophize  over  the  past,  but  the 
present  is  only  a  burthen  and  a  weari- 
ness. The  one  lies  before  them  like  a 
placid  evening  landscape  ;  the  other  is 
full  of  the  vexations  and  anxieties  of 
housekeeping.  It  may  be  true  enough 
that  miscet  hczc  Mis,  prohibetque  Cln- 
tho  fortuuam  stare,  but  he  who  said  it 
was  fain  at  last  to  call  in  Atropos  with 
her  shears  before  her  time  :  and  I  can- 
not  help  selfishly   mourning  that  the 


fortune  of  our  Republick  could  not  at 
least  stand  till  my  days  were  num- 
bered. 

Tibullus  would  find  the  origin  of  wars 
in  the  great  exaggeration  of  riches,  and 
does  not  stick  to  say  that  in  the  days 
of  the  beechen  trencher  there  was 
peace.  But  averse  as  I  am  by  nature 
from  all  wars,  the  more  as  they  have 
been  especially  fatal  to  libraries,  I 
would  have  this  one  go  on  till  we  are 
reduced  to  wooden  platters  again,  rather 
than  surrender  the  principle  to  detend 
which  it  was  undertaken.  Though  I 
believe  Slavery  to  have  been  the  cause 
of  it,  by  so  thoroughly  demoralizing 
Northern  politicks  for  its  own  purposes 
as  to  give  opportunity  and  hope  to  trea- 
son, yet  I  would  not  have  our  thought 
and  purpose  diverted  from  their  true 
object,  —  the  maintenance  of  the  idea  of 
Government.  We  are  not  merely  sup- 
pressing an  enormous  riot,  but  contend- 
ing for  the  possibility  of  permanent 
order  coexisting  with  democratical  fick- 
leness ;  and  while  I  would  not  super- 
stitiously  venerate  form  to  the  sacrifice 
of  substance,  neither  would  I  forget 
that  an  adherence  to  precedent  and 
prescription  can  alone  give  that  con- 
tinuity and  coherence  under  a  demo- 
cratical constitution  which  are  inherent 
in  the  person  of  a  despotick  monarch 
and  the  selfishness  of  an  aristocratical 
class.  Stct  pro  ratione  voluntas  is  as 
dangerous  in  a  majority  as  in  a  tyrant. 

I  cannot  allow  the  present  production 
of  my  young  friend  to  go  out  without  a 
protest  from  me  against  a  certain  ex- 
tremeness in  his  views,  more  pardona- 
ble in  the  poet  than  the  philosopher. 
While  I  agree  with  him,  that  the  only 
cure  for  rebellion  is  suppression  by 
force,  yet  I  must  animadvert  upon 
certain  phrases  where  I  seem  to  see  * 
coincidence  with  a  popular  fallacy  on 
the  subject  of  compromise.  On  the  one 
hand  there  are  those  who  do  not  see 
that  the  vital  principle  of  Government 
and  the  seminal  principle  of  Law  can- 
not properly  be  made  a  subject  of  com- 
promise at  all,  and  on  the  other  those 
who  are  equally  blind  to  the  truth  that 
without    a  compromise  of   individual 


THE   BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


3°5 


opinions,  interests,  and  even  rights,  no 
society  would  be  possible.  In  medio 
tutissimus.  For  my  own  part,  I  would 
gladly 


Ef  I  a  song  or  two  could  n  make 
Like  rockets  druv  by  their  own  bum- 
in', 
All  leap  an'  light,  to  leave  a  wake 
Men's  hearts  an'  faces  skyward  turn- 
in'  !  — 
But,  it  strikes  me,  't  ain't  jest  the  time 
Ferstringin'  words  with  settisfaction  : 
Wut  's  wanted  now  's  the  silent  rhyme 
'Twixt  upright   Will  an'  downright 
Action. 

Words,  ef  you  keep  'em,  pay  their  keep, 

But  gabble  's  the  short  cut  to  ruin  ; 
It 's  gratis,  (gals  half-price,)  but  cheap 

At  no  rate,  ef  it  henders  doin'  ; 
Ther'  's  nothin'  wuss,  'less  't  is  to  set 

A  martyr-prem'um  upon  jawrin'  : 
Teapots  git  dangerous,  ef  you  shet 

Their  lids  down  on  'em  with   Fort 
Warren. 

'Bout  long  enough  it 's  ben  discussed 

Who  sot  the  magazine  afire, 
An'  whether,  ef  Bob  Wickliffe  bust, 

'T  would  scare  us  more  or  blow  us 
higher. 
If  ye  s'pose  the  Gret  Foreseer's  plan 

Wuz  settled  fer  him  in  town-meetin'  ? 
Or  thet  ther*  'd  ben  no  Fall  o'  Man, 

Ef  Adam  'd  on'y  bit  a  sweetin'? 

Oh,  Jon'than,  ef  you  want  to  be 

A  rugged  chap  agin  an'  hearty, 
Go  fer  wutever  '11  hurt  Jeff  D., 

Nut  wut  'II  boost  up  ary  party. 
Here  's  hell  broke  loose,  an'  we  lay  flat 

With  half  the  univarse  a-sineein'. 
Till  Sen'tor  This  an'  Gov'nor  Thet 

Stop  squabblin'  fer  thegarding-ingin. 

It 's  war  we  're  in,  not  politics  ; 

It  's    systems     wrastlin'     now,    not 
parties  ; 
An'  victory  in  the  eend  '11  fix 

Where  longest  will  an'  truest  heart  is. 


An'  wut 's  the  Guv'ment  folks  about  ? 

Tryin'  10  hope  ther'  's  nothin'  doin'. 
An'  look  ez  though  they  didn't  doubt 

Sunthin'  pertickler  wuz  a-brewin'. 

Ther'  's  critters  yit  thet  talk  an'  act 

Fer  wut  they  call  Conciliation  ; 
They  'd  hand  a  buff' lo-drove  a  tract 
When    they    wuz   madder   than   all 
Bashan. 
Conciliate  ?  it  jest  means  be  kicked. 
No  metter  how  they  phrase  an'  tone 
it; 
It  means  thet  we  're  to  set  down  licked, 
Thet  we  're  poor  shotes  an'  glad  to 
own  it  1 

A  war  on  tick  's  ez  dear  'z  the  deuce, 

But  it  wun't  leave  no  lastin'  traces, 
Ez  't  would  to  make  a  sneakin'  truce 

Without  no  moral  specie-basis  : 
Ef  green-backs  ain't  nut  jest  the  cheese, 

I    guess    ther'  's    evils  thet  's    ex- 
tremer,  — 
Fer  instance,  —  shinplaster  idees 

Like  them  put  out  by  Gov'nor  Sey- 
mour. 

Last  year,  the  Nation,  at  a  word, 

When   tremblin'    Freedom   cried  to 
shield  her, 
Flamed  weldin'  into  one  keen  sword 

Waitin'  an'  longin'  fer  a  wielder  : 
A    splendid    flash!  —  but   how 'd    the 
grasp 

With  sech  a  chance  ez  thet  wuz  tally? 
Ther'  warn't  no  meanin'  in  our  clasp,  — 

Half  this,  half  thet,  all  shilly-shally. 

More  men  ?    More  Man  !     It  's  there 
we  fail  ; 
Weak    plans    grow    weaker 
lengthenin' : 
Wut  use  in  addin'  to  the  tail, 
When    it 's  the  head  's  in  need  o' 
strengthenin'  ? 
We  wanted  one  thet  felt  all  Chief 

From  roots  o'  hair  to  sole  o'  stockin', 
Square-sot  with  thousan'-ton  belief 
In  him  an'  us,  ef  earth  went  rockin'  ! 

Ole    Hick'ry  would  n't  ha'  stood  see- 
saw 
'Bout  doin'  things  till  they  wui  done 
with,  — 


yit  by 


3°° 


THE  BIGLOIV  PAPERS. 


He  'd  smashed  the  tables  o'  the  Law 
In  time  o'  need  to  load  his  gun  with  ; 

He  could  n't  see  but  jest  one  side,  — 
Ef  his,  't  wuz  God's,  an'   thet  wuz 
plenty  ; 

An'  so  his  "  Forrards  ! "  multiplied 
An  army's  fightin'  weight  by  twenty. 

But  this  'ere  histin',  creak,  creak,  creak, 

Your  cappen's  heart  up  with  a  der- 
rick, 
This  tryin'  to  coax  a  lightnin'-streak 

Out  of  a  half-discouraged  hay-rick, 
This  hangin'  on  mont'  arter  inont' 

Fer  one  sharp  purpose  'mongst  the 
twitter,  — 
1  tell  ye,  it  doos  kind  o'  stunt 

The  peth  and  spent  of  a  critter. 

In  six  months  where  '11  the  People  be, 

Ef  leaders  look  on  revolution 
Ez  though  it  wuz  a  cup  o'  tea,  — 

Jest  social  el'ments  in  solution  ? 
This  weighin'  things  doos  wal  enough 

When  war  cools  down,  an'  comes  to 
writin'  ; 
But  while  it 's   makin',  the  true  stuff 

Is  pison-mad,  pig-headed  fightin'. 

Democ'acy  gives  every  man 

A  right  to  be  his  own  oppressor  ; 
But  a  loose  Gov'ment  ain't  the  plan, 

Helpless  ez  spilled  beans  on  a  dres- 
ser : 
I  tell  ve  one  thing  we  might  lam 

From  them  smart  critters,  the  Seced- 
ers,  — 
Efbein'  right's  the  fust  consarn, 

The 'fore  the-fust  's  cast-iron  leaders. 

But  'pears  to  me  I  see  some  signs 

Thet  we  're  a-goin'  to  use  our  senses  : 
Jeff  druv  us  into  these  hard  lines, 
An'  ough'  to  bear  his  half  th'  ex- 
penses ; 
Slavery  's  Secession's  heart  an'  will, 
South,  North,  East,  West,  where'er 
you  find  it, 
An'  ef  it  drors  into  War's  mill, 

D'  ye  say  them  thunder-stones  sha' 
n't  grind  it  ? 

D'  ye  s'pose,  ef  Jeff  giv  htm  a  lick, 
Ole  Hick'ry  'd  tried  his  head  tosofn 


So  's  't  would  n't  hurt  thr*  «f "ly  stick 
Thet  's  made  our  side  see  stars  so 
of'n? 
"  No  !  "  he  'd  ha'  thundered,  "  on  your 
knees, 
An'  own  one  flag,  one  road  to  glory! 
Soft-heartedness,  in  times  like  these, 
Shows  sof  ness  in  the  upper  story  I  " 

An'  why  should  we  kick  up  a  muss 

About  the  Pres'dunt's proclamation? 
It  ain't  a-goin'  to  lib'rate  us, 

Ef  we  don't  like  emancipation  : 
The  right  to  be  a  cussed  fool 

Is  safe  from  all  devices  human, 
It  's  common  (ez  a  gin'l  rule) 

To  every  critter  born  o'  woman. 

So  we  're  all  right,  an'  I,  fer  one, 

Don't  think  our  cause  '11  lose  in  vally 
By  rammin'  Scriptur'  in  our  gun, 

An'  gittin'  Natur'  fer  an  ally  : 
Thank  God,  say  I,  fer  even  a  plan 

To  lift  one  human  bein's  level, 
Give  one  more  chance  to  make  a  man, 

Or,  anyhow,  to  spile  a  devil  I 

Not  thet  I  'm  one  thet  much  expec' 

Millennium  by  express  to-morrer; 
They  will  miscarry,  —  I  rec'lec' 

Tu  many  on  'em,  to  my  sorrer  : 
Men  ain't  made  angels  in  a  day, 

No  matter  how  you  mould  an'  labor 
'em,  — 
Nor  'riginal  ones,  I  guess,  don't  stay 

With  Abe  so  of'n  ez  with  Abraham. 

The'ry  thinks  Fact  a  pooty  thing, 

An'  wants  the  banns  read  right  en- 
suin' ; 
But  fact  wun't  noways  wear  the  ring 

'Thout  years  o'  settin'  up  an'  wooin  : 
Though,  arter  all,  Time's  dial-plate 

Marks    cent'ries    with  the  minute- 
finger, 
An'  Good  can't  never  come  tu  late, 

Though  it  doos  seem  to  try  an  linger. 

An'  come  wut  will.  I  think  it 's  grand 
Abe  's  gut  his  will  et  last  bloom-fur- 
naced 

In  trial -flames  till  it  'II  stand 
The  strain  o'bein'  in  deadly  earnest: 


THE   BIG  LOW  PAPERS. 


3°7 


Thet  's  wut  we  want,  —  we  want  to 

know 

The  folks  on  our  side  hez  the  bravery 

To  b'heve  ez  hard,  come  weal,  come 

woe, 

In  Freedom  ez  Jeff  doos  in  Slavery. 

Set  the  two  forces  foot  to  foot. 
An'  every  man  knows  who  '11  be  win- 
ner, 
Whose  faith  in  God  hez  ary  root 
Thet  goes  down  deeper  than  his  din- 
ner : 
Then  't  will  be  felt  from  pole  to  pole, 

Without  no  need  o'  proclamation, 
Earth's  Biggest  Country  'sgut  her  soul 
An'  risen   up  Earth's  Greatest  Na- 
tion ! 


No.  VIII. 
KETELOPOTOMACHIA. 

PRELIMINARY  NOTE. 

In  the  month  of  February,  1866,  the 
editors  of  the  "Atlantic  Monthly" 
received  from  the  Rev.  Mr.  Hitchcock 
of  Jaalam  a  letter  enclosing  the  maca- 
ronic verses  which  follow,  and  promis- 
ing to  send  more,  if  more  should  be 
communicated.  "  They  were  rapped 
out  on  the  evening  of  Thursday  last 
past,"  he  says,  "  by  what  claimed  to 
be  the  spirit  of  my  late  predecessor  in 
the  ministry  here,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Wil- 
bur, through  the  medium  of  a  young 
man  at  present  domiciled  in  my  family. 
As  to  the  possibility  of  such  spiritual 
manifestations, or  whetherthey  be  prop- 
erly so  entitled,  I  express  no  opinion,  as 
there  is  a  division  of  sentiment  on  that 
subject  in  the  parish,  and  many  persons 
of  the  highest  respectability  in  social 
standing  entertain  opposing  views. 
The  young  man  who  was  improved  as 
a  medium  submitted  himself  to  the  ex- 
periment with  manifest  reluctance,  and 
a.  still  unprepared  to  believe  in  the 
authenticity  of  the  manifestations. 
During  his  residence  with  me  his  de- 


portment has  always  been  exemplary ; 
he  has  been  constant  in  his  attendance 
upon  our  family  devotions  and  the  pub- 
lic ministrations  of  the  Word,  and  has 
more  than  once  privately  stated  to  me, 
that  the  latter  had  often  brought  him 
under  deep  concern  of  mind.  The 
table  is  an  ordinary  quadrupedal  one, 
weighing  about  thirty  pounds,  three 
feet  seven  inches  and  a  half  in  height, 
four  feet  square  on  the  top,  and  of 
beech  or  maple,  I  am  not  definitely  pre- 
pared to  say  which.  It  had  once  be- 
longed to  my  respected  predecessor, 
and  had  been,  so  far  as  I  can  learn  upon 
careful  inquiry,  of  perfectly  regular  and 
correct  habits  up  to  the  evening  in 
question.  On  that  occasion  the  young 
man  previously  alluded  to  had  been 
sitting  with  his  hands  resting  carelessly 
upon  it,  while  I  read  over  to  him  at  his 
request  certain  portions  of  my  last 
Sabbath's  discourse.  On  a  sudden  the 
^  rappings,  as  they  are  called,  commenced 
;  to  render  themselves  audible,  at  first 
faintly,  but  in  process  of  time  more 
distinctly  and  with  violent  agitation  of 
the  table.  The  young  man  expressed 
himself  both  surprised  and  pained  by 
the  wholly  unexpected,  and,  so  far  as 
he  was  concerned,  unprecedented  oc- 
currence. At  the  earnest  solicitation, 
however,  of  several  who  happened  to 
be  present,  he  consented  to  go  on  with 
the  experiment,  and  with  the  assistance 
of  the  alphabet  commonly  employed  in 
similar  emergencies,  the  following  com- 
munication was  obtained  and  written 
down  immediately  by  myself.  Whether 
any,  and  if  so,  how  much  weight  should 
be  attached  to  it,  I  venture  no  decision. 
That  Dr.  Wilbur  had  sometimes  em- 
ployed his  leisure  in  Latin  versification 
I  have  ascertained  to  be  the  case,  though 
all  that  has  been  discovered  of  that  na- 
ture among  his  papers  consists  of  some 
fragmentary  passages  of  a  version  into 
hexameters  of  portions  of  the  Song  of 
Solomon.  These  I  had  communicated 
about  a  week  or  ten  days  previous  [ly] 
to  the  young  gentleman  who  officiated 
as  medium  in  the  communication  after- 
wards received.  I  have  thus,  I  believe, 
stated  all  the  material  facts  that  havo 


3°8 


THE  BIG  LOW  PAPERS. 


any  elucidative  bearing  upon  this  mys- 
terious occurrence." 

So  far  Mr.  Hitchcock,  who  seems 
perfectly  master  of  Webster's  una- 
bridged quarto,  and  whose  flowing  style 
leads  him  into  certain  further  expatia- 
tions  for  which  we  have  not  room.  We 
have  since  learned  that  the  young  man 
he  speaks  of  was  a  sophomore,  put 
under   his  care   during  a    sentence  of 

rustication  from College,  where  he 

had  distinguished  himself  rather  by 
physical  experiments  on  the  compara- 
tive power  of  resistance  in  window- 
glass  to  various  solid  substances,  than 
in  the  more  regular  studies  of  the  place. 
In  answer  to  a  letter  of  inquiry,  the 
professor  of  Latin  says,  "  There  was  no 
harm  in  the  boy  that  I  know  of  beyond 
his  loving  mischief  more  than  Latin, 
nor  can  I  think  of  any  spirits  likely  to 
possess  him  except  those  commonly 
called  animal.  He  was  certainly  not 
remarkable  for  his  Latinity,  but  I  see 
nothingin  verses  you  enclose  that  would 
lead  me  to  think  them  beyond  his 
capacity,  or  the  result  of  any  speci.il 
inspiration  whether  of  beech  or  maple. 
Had  that  of  birch  been  tried  upon  him 
earlier  and  more  faithfully,  the  verses 
would  perhaps  have  been  better  in 
quality  and  certainly  in  quantity."  This 
exact  and  thorough  scholar  then  goes 
on  to  point  out  many  false  quantities 
and  barbarisms.  It  is  but  fair  to  say, 
however,  that  the  author,  whoever  he 
was,  seems  not  to  have  been  unaware 
of  some  of  them  himself,  as  is  shown 
by  a  great  many  notes  appended  to  the 
verses  as  we  received  them,  and  purport- 
ing to  be  by  Scaliger,  Bentley  and 
others,  —  among  them  the  Esprit  de 
Voltaire  !  These  we  have  omitted  as 
clearly  meant  to  be  humorous  and  alto- 
gether failing  therein. 

Though  entirely  satisfied  that  the 
verses  are  altogether  unworthy  of  Mr. 
Wilbur,  who  eeems  to  have  been  a 
tolerable  Latin  scholar  after  the  fashion 
of  his  day,  yet  we  have  determined  to 
print  them  here  partly  as  belonging  to 
the  res  gestte  of  this  collection,  and 
partly  as  a  warning  to  their  putative 
author  which  may  keep  him  from  such 
indecorous  pranks  for  the  fuvure. 


KETTELOPOTOMACHIA. 

P.  Ovidii  Nasonis  carmen  heroicum  maca* 
ronicum  perplexametrum,  inter  Getas  getico 
more  conipostum,  denuo  per  medium  arden- 
tispiritualem.  adjuvante  mensa  diabolic? 
obsessa^  recuperatum,  curaque  To.  Conradi 
Schwarzii  umbrae,  aliis  necnon  plurimis  adju- 
vantibus,  restitutuin. 


Punctorum  garretos  colens  et  cellars 

Quinque, 
Gutteribus   qua   et   gaudes  sundayam 

abstingere'  frontem, 
Plerumque  insidos  solita  fluitare  liquore 
Tanglepedem  quern  homines  appellant 

Di  quoque  rotgut, 
Pimpliidis,    rubiciJndaque,    Musa,    O, 

bourbonolensque,  * 

Fenianas  rixas  procul,  alma,  brogipo- 

tentis 
Patncii    cyathos    iterantis  et    horrida 

bella, 
Backos    dum    virides  viridis    Brigitta 

remittit, 
Linquens,  eximios  celebrem,  da,  Vir- 

ginienses 
Rowdes,  prsecipue  et  Te,  heros  alte, 

Polarde  !  10 

Insignes    juvenesque,    illo    certamine 

lictos, 
Colemane,  Tylere,   nee  vos  oblivione 

relinquam. 

Ampla  aquilae  invict*  fausto  est  sub 

tegmine  terra, 
Backyfer,    ooiskeo   pollens,    ebenoque 

bipede, 
Socors    praesidum    et    altrix   (denique 

quidruminantium),  15 

Duplefveorum  uberrima  ;  illis  etintegre 

cordi  est 
Deplere  assidue  et  sine  proprio  incom- 

modo  fiscum  ; 
Nunc   etiam    placidum   hoc  opus  in- 

victique  secuti, 
Goosam  aureos  ni  eggos  voluissent  im- 

mo  necare 
Qua  peperit,  saltern  ac  de  illis  meliora 

merentem.  * 

Condidit  hanc  Smithius  Dux,  Cap- 

tinus  inclytus  i  lie 
Regis   Ulyssa?  instar,   docti  arcum  in- 
tendere  longum  ; 


THE  B I  GLOW  PaFFRS. 


V*i 


Condidit  ille  Johasmith,  Virginiamque 

vocavit, 
Settledit   autem  Jacobus  rex,  nomine 

primus, 
Rascalis  implens   ruptis,  blagardisque 

deboshtis,  25 

Militibusque  ex  Falstaffi  legione  fugatis 
Wenchisque  illi  quas  poterant  seducere 

nuptas  ; 
Virgineum,  ah,  littus  matronis  talibus 

impar  ! 
Progeniem  stirpe  ex  hoc  non  sine  stig- 

mate  ducunt 
Multi  sese  qui  jactant  regum  esse  ne- 

potes :  <<o 

Haud  omnes,  Mater,  genitos  quae  nu- 

per  habebas 
Bello    fortes,   consilio  cautos,   virtute 

decoros, 
Jamque  et  habes,  sparso  si  patrio  in 

sanguine  virtus, 
Mostrabisque  iterum,  antiquis  sub  as- 

tris  reducta  ! 
De   illis  qui  upkikitant,  dicebam,  rum- 

pora  tanta,  35 

Letcheris  et  Floydis  magnisque  Extra 

ordine  Billis  ; 
Est  his  prisca  fides  jurare  et  breakere 

wordum  ; 
Poppere  fellerum  a  tergo,  aut  stickere 

clam  bowiknifo, 
Haud  sane  facinus,  dignum  sed  victrice 

lauro  ; 
Lartupere  et  nigerum,  factum  prsestan- 

tius  ullo  :  • 

Ast  chlamydem  piciplumatam,  Icariam, 

flito  et  ineptam, 
Vanko  gratis  induere,  ilium  et  valido 

railo 
Insuper  acri  equitare  docere  est  hos- 

pitio  uti. 
Nescio  an  ille  Polardus  duplefveori- 

bus  ortus, 
Sed  reputo  potius  de  radice  poorwite- 

manorum  ;  45 

Fortuiti  proles,  ni  fallor,  Tylerus  erat 
Praesidis,    omnibus  ab  Whiggis  nomi- 

natus  a  poor  cuss  ; 
Et  nobilem  tertium  evincit  venerabile 

nomen. 
Ast  animosi  omnes  bellique  ad  tympana 

ha ! ha  ! 
Vociferant  lseti,   procul  et  si  proelia, 

sive  so 


Hostem  incautum  atsito  possunt  shoot- 

ere  salvi  : 
Imperiique    capaces,    esset    si    stylus 

agmen, 
Pro  dulci  spoliabant  et   sine  dangere 

fito. 
Prae   ceterisque  Polardus :   si  Secessia 

licta, 
Se  nunquam  licturum  jurat,  res  et  un- 

heardof,  55 

Verbo  haesit,  similisque  audaci  roosteri 

invicto, 
Dunghilli  solitus  rex  pullos  whoppere 

molles, 
Grantuni,  hirelingos  stripes  quique  et 

splendida  tollunt 
Sidera,  et  Yankos,  lerritum  et  omnem 

sarsuit  orbem. 
Usque   dabant   operam    isti   omnes, 

noctesque  diesque,  m 

Samuelem    demulgere   avunculum,    id 

vero  siccum  ; 
Uberibus  sed  ejus,  et  horum  est  culpa, 

remotis, 
Parvam  domi  vaccam,  nee  mora  mini- 
ma, quaerunt, 
Lacticarentem  autem  et  droppam   vix 

in  die  dantem  ; 
Reddite  avunculi,  et  exclamabant,  red- 

dite  pappam  !  85 

Polko  ut  consule,   gemens,    Billy  im- 

murmurat  Extra ; 
Echo  respondit,    thesauro    ex    vacuo, 

pappam  ! 
Frustra  explorant  pocketa,  ruber  nare 

repertum  ; 
Officia  expulsi  aspiciunt  rapta,  et  Para- 

disum 
Occlusum,  viridesque  haud  illis  nascere 

backos ;  70 

Stupent  tunc  oculis  madidisspittantque 

silenter. 
Adhibere  usu  ast  longo  vires  prorsus 

inepti, 
Si  non  ut  qui  grindeat  axve  trabemve 

revolvat, 
Virginiam  excruciant  totis  nunc  might- 

ibu'  matrem  : 
Non  melius,  puta,  nono  panis  dimid- 

iumne  est  ?  7S 

Readere  ibi  non  posse  est  casus  com- 
moner ullo  ; 
Tanto  intentius  imprimere  est  opus  ergo 

statuta  ; 


3'° 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


Nemo    propterea  pejor,    melior,   sine 

doubto, 
Obtineat  qui  contractum,  si  et  postea 

rhino  ; 
Ergo  Polardus,  si  quis,  inexsuperabilis 

heros,  80 

Colemanus  impavidus  nondum,  atque 

in  purpure  natus 
Tylerus    Iohanides   celerisque   in  flito 

Nathaniel, 
Quisque  optans  digitos  in  tantum  stick- 

ere  pium, 
Adstant  accincti  imprimere  autperrum- 

pere leges : 
Quales  os  miserum  rabidi   tres  a?gre 

molossi,  85 

Quales  aut  dubium  textum  atra  in  veste 

ministri, 
Tales  circumstabant  nunc  nostriinopes 

hoc  job. 
Hisque    Polardus   voce  canoro  talia 

fatus  : 
Primum  autem,  veluti  est  mos,  prsceps 

quisque  liquorat, 
Quisque   et    Nicotianum    ingens  quid 

inserit  atrum,  ^° 

Heroilm  nitidum  decus  et  solamen  avi- 

tum, 
Masticat  ac  simul  altisonans,  spittatque 

profuse  : 
Quis   de   Virginia   meruit   prsstantius 

unquam  ? 
Quis  se  pro  patria  curavit  impigre  tu- 

tum  ? 
Speechisque  articulisque  hominum  quis 

fortior  ullus,  95 

Ingeminans  penna   lickos  et  vulnera 

vocis? 
Quisnam  putidius  (hie)  sarsuit  Yanki- 

nimicos, 
Saepius  aut  dedit  ultro  datam  et  broke 

his  parolam  ? 
Mente  inquassatus  solidaque,  tyranno 

minante, 
Horrisonis  (hie)  bombis  mcenia  et  alta 

quatente,  10° 

Sese  promptum  (hie)  jactans  Yankos 

lickere  centum, 
Atque  ad  lastum  invictus  non  surrendi- 

dit  unquam  ? 
Ergo  haud  meddlite,  posco,  mique  re- 

linquite  (hie)  hoc  job, 
Si  non knifumque  enormem  mos- 

trat  spittatque  tremendus. 


Dixerat :  ast  alii  reliquorant  et  sin^ 

pauso  10* 

Pluggos   incumbunt  maxillis,   uterque 

vicissim 
Certamine    innocuo    valde    madidam 

inquinit  assem  : 
Tylerus  autem,  dumque  liquorat  aridus 

hostis, 
Mirum   aspicit   duplumque   bibentem, 

astante  Lya;o  ; 
Ardens  impavidusque  edidit  tamen  im- 

pia  verba  ;  lw 

Duplum  cjuamvis  te  aspicio,  esses  atque 

viginti, 
Mendacem     dicerem     totumque     (hie) 

thrasherem  acervum  ; 
Nempe  et  thrasham,  doggonatus  (hie) 

sim  nisi  faxem  ; 
Lambastabo    omnes    catawompositer- 

(hic)-que  chawam  I 
Dixit  et  impulsus  Ryeo  ruitur  bene  ti- 

tus,  »" 

Illi   nam   gravidum  caput   et   laterem 

habet  in  hatto. 
Hunc   inhiat  titubansque   Polardus, 

optat  et  ilium 
Stickere  inermem,  protegit  autem  rite 

Lyaeus, 
Et  pronos  geminos,  oculis  dubitantibus, 

heros 
Cernit  et  irritus  hostes,  dumque  excogi- 

tat  utrum  12° 

Primum  inpitchere,  corruit,  inter  utros- 

que  recumbit, 
Magno  asino  similis  nimio  sub  pondere 

quassus  : 
Colemanushosmoestus,  tristeruminans- 

que  solamen, 
Inspicit   hiccans,  circumspittat   terquo 

cubantes  ; 
Funereisque   his  ritibus   humidis  inde 
solutis,  125 

Sternitur,  invalidusque  illissuperincidit 

infans  ; 
Hos  sepelit  somnus  et  snorunt  corniso- 

nantes, 
Watchmanus    inscios     ast     calybooso 

deinde  reponit. 


No.    IX. 

(The  Editors  of  the  "  Atlantic  "  have 
received  so  many  letters  of  inquiry  con- 


THE   BIGLOIV  PAPERS. 


3»i 


eemina:  the  literary  remains  of  the  late 
Mr.  Wilbur,  mentioned  by  his  colleague 
and  successor,  Rev.  Jeduthan  Hitch- 
cock, in  a  communication  from  which 
we  made  some  extracts  in  our  number 
for  February,  1863,  and  have  been  so 
repeatedly  urged  to  print  some  part  of 
them  for  the  gratification  of  the  public, 
that  they  felt  it  their  duty  at  least  to 
make  some  effort  to  satisfy  so  urgent  a 
demand.  They  have  accordingly  care- 
fully examined  the  papers  intrusted  to 
them,  but  find  most  of  the  productions 
of  Mr.  Wilbur's  pen  so  fragmentary, 
and  even  chaotic,  written  as  they  are  on 
the  backs  of  letters  in  an  exceedingly 
cramped  chirography,  —  here  a  memo- 
randum for  a  sermon  ;  there  an  obser- 
vation of  the  weather;  now  the  meas- 
urement of  an  extraordinary  head  of 
cabbage,  and  then  of  the  cerebral  ca- 
pacity of  some  reverend  brother  de- 
ceased ;  a  calm  inquiry  into  the  state 
of  modern  literature,  ending  in  a  method 
of  detecting  if  milk  be  impoverished 
with  water,  and  the  amount  thereof; 
one  leaf  beginning  with  a  genealogy,  to 
be  interrupted  half-way  down  with  an 
entry  that  the  brindle  cow  had  calved,  — 
that  any  attempts  at  selection  seemed 
desperate.  His  only  complete  work, 
"  An  Enquiry  concerning  the  Tenth 
Horn  of  the  Beast,"  even  in  the  abstract 
of  it  given  by  Mr  Hitchcock,  would, 
by  a  rough  computation  of  the  printers, 
fill  five  entire  numbers  of  our  journal, 
and  as  he  attempts,  by  a  new  applica- 
tion of  decimal  fractions,  to  identify  it 
with  the  Emperor  Julian,  seems  hardly 
of  immediate  concern  to  the  general 
reader.  Even  the  Table-Talk,  though 
doubtless  originally  highly  interesting 
in  the  domestic  circle,  is  so  largely 
made  up  of  theological  discussion  and 
matters  of  local  or  preterite  interest, 
that  we  have  found  it  hard  to  extract 
anything  that  would  at  all  satisfy  ex- 
pectation. But,  in  order  to  silence 
further  inquiry,  we  subjoin  a  few  pas- 
sages as  illustrations  of  its  general  char- 
acter.] 

I  think  I  could  go  near  to  be  a  per- 
fect Christian  if  I  were  always  a  visitor, 


as  I  have  sometimes  been,  at  the  house 
of  some  hospitable  friend.  I  can  show 
a  great  deal  of  self-denial  where  the 
best  of  everything  is  urged  upon  me 
with  kindly  importunity.  It  is  not  so 
very  hard  to  turn  the  other  cheek  for  a 
kiss.  And  when  I  meditate  upon  the 
pains  taken  for  our  entertainment  in  this 
life,  on  the  endless  variety  of  seasons, 
of  human  character  and  fortune,  on  the 
costliness  of  the  hangings  and  furni- 
ture of  our  dwelling  here,  I  sometimes 
feel  a  singular  joy  in  looking  upon  my- 
self as  God's  guest,  and  cannot  but  be- 
lieve that  we  should  all  be  wiser  and 
happier,  because  more  grateful,  if  we 
were  always  mindful  of  our  privilege 
in  this  regard.  And  should  we  not  rate 
more  cheaply  any  honor  that  men  could 
pay  us,  if  we  remembered  that  every 
day  we  sat  at  the  table  of  the  Great 
King?  Yet  must  we  not  forget  that 
we  are  in  strictest  bonds  His  servants 
also  ;  for  there  is  no  impiety  so  abject 
as  that  which  expects  to  be  dead-headed 
(itt  ita  dicam)  through  life,  and  which, 
calling  itself  trust  in  Providence,  is  in 
reality  asking  Providence  to  trust  us 
and  taking  up  all  our  goods  on  false 
pretences.  It  is  a  wise  rule  to  take  the 
world  as  we  find  it,  not  always  to  leave 
it  so. 

It  has  often  set  me  thinking  when  I 
find  that  I  can  always  pick  up  plenty 
of  empty  nuts  under  my  shagbark-tree. 
The  squirrels  know  them  by  their 
lightness,  and  I  have  seldom  seen  one 
with  the  marks  of  their  teeth  in  it. 
What  a  school-house  is  the  world,  if 
our  wits  would  only  not  play  truant  ! 
For  I  observe  that  men  set  most  store 
by  forms  and  symbols  in  proportion  as 
they  are  mere  shells.  It  is  the  outside 
they  want  and  not  the  kernel.  What 
stores  of  such  do  not  many,  who  in 
material  things  are  as  shrewd  as  the 
squirrels,  lay  up  for  the  spiritual  win- 
ter-supply of  themselves  and  their  chil- 
dren !  I  have  seen  churches  that  seemed 
to  me  gamers  of  these  withered  nuts, 
for  it  is  wonderful  how  prosaic  is  the 
apprehension  of  symbols  by  the  minds 
of  most  men.  It  is  not  one  sect  nor 
another,  but  all,  who,  like  the  dog  of 


3" 


THE  B I  GLOW  PAPERS. 


the  fable,  have  let  drop  the  spiritual 
substance  of  symbols  for  their  material 
shadow.  If  one  attribute  miraculous 
virtues  to  mere  holy  water,  that  beau- 
tiful emblem  of  inward  purification  at 
the  door  ot  God's  house,  another  can- 
not comprehend  the  significance  of  bap- 
tism without  being  ducked  over  head  and 
ears  in  the  liquid  vehicle  thereof. 

[Perhaps  a  word  of  historical  com- 
ment may  be  permitted  here.  My  late 
revered  predecessor  was,  I  would 
humbly  affirm,  as  free  from  prejudice 
as  falls  to  the  lot  of  the  most  highly 
favoredindividualsof  ourspecies.  To  be 
sure,  I  have  heard  him  say  that,  "  what 
were  called  strong  prejudices,  were  in 
fact  only  the  repulsion  of  sensitive  or- 
ganizations from  that  moral  and  even 
physical  effluvium  through  which  some 
natures  by  providential  appointment, 
like  certain  unsavory  quadrupeds,  gave 
warning  of  their  neighborhood.  Better 
ten  mistaken  suspicions  of  this  kind 
than  one  close  encounter."  This  he 
said  somewhat  in  heat,  on  being  ques- 
tioned as  to  his  motives  for  always  re- 
fusing his  pulpit  to  those  itinerant  pro- 
fessors of  vicarious  benevolence  who 
end  their  discourses  by  taking  up  a 
collection.  But  at  another  time  I  re- 
member his  saying,  "  that  there  was 
one  large  thing  which  small  minds  al- 
ways found  room  for,  and  that  was  great 
prejudices."  This,  however,  by  the 
way.  The  statement  which  I  purposed 
to  make  was  simply  this.  Down  to 
A.  D.  1830,  Jaalam  had  consisted  of  a 
single  parish,  with  one  house  set  apart 
for  religious  services.  In  that  year 
the  foundations  of  a  Baptist  Society 
were  laid  by  the  labors  of  Elder  Joash 
Q.  Balcom,  2d.  As  the  members  of 
the  new  body  were  drawn  from  the 
First  Parish,  Mr.  Wilbur  was  for  a 
time  considerably  exercised  in  mind. 
He  even  went  so  far  as  on  one  occasion 
to  follow  the  reprehensible  practice  of 
the  earlier  Puritan  divines  in  choosing 
a  punning  text,  and  preached  from  He- 
brews xiii.  9  :  "Be  not  carried  about 
with  divers  and  strange  doctrines." 
He  afterwards,  in  accordance  with  one 


of  his  own  maxims,  —  "  to  get  a  dead 
injury  out  of  the  mind  as  soon  as  is  de- 
cent, bury  it,  and  then  ventilate,"  —  in 
accordance  with  this  maxim,  1  say,  he 
lived  on  very  friendly  terms  with  Rev. 
Shearjashub  Scrimgour,  present  pastor 
of  the  Baptist  Society  in  Jaalam.  Yet 
I  think  it  was  never  unpleasing  to  him 
that  the  church  edifice  of  that  society 
(though  otherwise  a  creditable  specimen 
of  architecture)  remained  without  a 
bell,  as  indeed  it  does  to  this  day.  So 
much  seemed  necessary  to  do  away  with 
any  appearance  of  acerbity  toward  a 
respectable  community  of  professing 
Christians,  which  might  be  suspected 
in  the  conclusion  of  the  above  para- 
graph.  -  J.  H.] 

In  lighter  moods  he  was  not  averse 
from  an  innocent  play  upon  words. 
Looking  up  from  his  newspaper  one 
morning  as  I  entered  his  study  he  said, 
"  When  I  read  a  debate  in  Congress,  I 
feel  as  if  I  were  sitting  at  the  feet  of 
Zeno  in  the  shadow  of  the  Portico." 
On  my  expressing  a  natural  surprise, 
he  added,  smiling,  "  Why,  at  such 
times  the  only  view  which  honorable 
members  give  me  of  what  goes  on  in 
the  world  is  through  their  intercalum- 
niations."  I  smiled  at  this  after  a  mo- 
ment's reflection,  and  he  added  gravely, 
"The  most  punctilious  refinement  of 
manners  is  the  only  salt  that  will  keep 
a  democracy  from  stinking  ;  and  what 
are  we  to  expect  from  the  people,  if 
their  representatives  set  them  such  les- 
sons? Mr.  Everett's  whole  life  has 
been  a  sermon  from  this  text.  There 
was,  at  least,  this  advantage  in  duel- 
ling, that  it  set  a  certain  limit  on  the 
tongue."  In  this  connection,  I  may  be 
permitted  to  recall  a  playful  remark  of 
his  upon  another  occasion.  The  pain- 
ful divisions  in  the  First  Parish,  A.  D. 
1844,  occasioned  by  the  wild  notions  in 
respect  to  the  rights  of  (what  Mr.  Wil- 
bur, so  far  as  concerned  the  reasoning 
faculty,  always  called)  the  unfairer  part 
of  creation,  put  forth  by  Miss  Parthe- 
nia  Almira  Fitz,  are  too  well  known  to 
need  more  than  a  passing  allusion.  It 
was  during  these  heats,  long  since  hap- 


THE   BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


3i3 


pi!y  allayed,  that  Mr.  Wilbur  remarked 
that  "the  Churcti  had  more  trouble  in 
dealing  with  one  sh  resiarch  than  with 
twenty  /wresiarchs,"  and  that  the  men's 
conscia  recti,  or  certainty  of  being 
right,  was  nothing  to   the  women's. 

When  I  once  asked  his  opinion  of  a 
poetical  composition  on  which  I  had 
expended  no  little  pains,  he  read  it  at- 
tentively, and  then  remarked,  "  Unless 
one's  thought  pack  more  neatly  in 
verse  than  in  prose,  it  is  wiser  to  re- 
frain. Commonplace  gains  nothing  by 
being  translated  into  rhyme,  for  it  is 
something  which  no  hocus-pocus  can 
transubstantiate  with  the  real  presence 
of  living  thought.  You  entitle  your 
piece,  '  My  Mother's  Grave,'  and  ex- 
pend four  pages  of  useful  paper  in  de- 
tailing your  emotions  there.  But,  my 
dear  sir,  watering  does  not  improve  the 
quality  of  ink,  even  though  you  should 
do  it  with  tears.  To  publish  a  sorrow 
to  Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry  is  in  some 
sort  to  advertise  its  unreality,  for  I  have 
observed  in  my  intercourse  with  the 
afflicted  that  the  deepest  grief  instinct- 
ively hides  its  face  with  its  hands  and 
is  silent.  If  your  piece  were  printed,  I 
have  no  doubt  it  would  be  popular,  for 
people  like  to  fancy  that  they  feel  much 
better  than  the  trouble  of  feeling.  I 
would  put  all  poets  on  oath  whether 
they  have  striven  to  say  everything 
tney  possibly  could  think  of,  or  to  leave 
out  all  they  could  not  help  saying.  In 
your  own  case,  my  worthy  young  friend, 
what  you  have  written  is  merely  a  de- 
liberate exercise,  the  gymnastic  of  sen- 
timent. For  your  excellent  maternal 
relative  is  still  alive,  and  is  to  take  tea 
with  me  this  evening,  D.  V.  Beware 
of  simulated  feeling  ;  it  is  hypocrisy's 
first  cousin  ;  it  is  especially  dangerous 
to  a  preacher  ;  for  he  who  says  one  day, 
'Go  to,  let  me  seem  to  be  pathetic,' 
may  be  nearer  than  he  thinks  to  saying, 
'  Go  to,  let  me  seem  to  be  virtuous,  or 
earnest,  or  under  sorrow  for  sin.'  De- 
pend upon  it,  Sappho  loved  her  verses 
more  sincerely  than  she  did  Phaon, 
and  Petrarch  his  sonnets  better  than 
I.uuia,  who  was  indeed  but  his  poetical 


stalking-horse.  After  you  shall  have 
once  heard  that  muffled  rattle  of  the 
clods  on  the  coffin-lid  of  an  irreparable 
loss,  you  will  grow  acquainted  with  a 
pathos  that  will  make  all  elegies  hate- 
ful. When  I  was  of  your  age,  I  also 
for  a  time  mistook  my  desire  to  write 
verses  for  an  authentic  call  of  my  na- 
ture in  that  direction.  But  one  day  as 
I  was  going  forth  for  a  walk,  with  my 
head  full  of  an  '  Elegy  on  the  Death  of 
Flirtilla,'  and  vainly  groping  after  a 
rhyme  for  lily  that  should  not  be  silly 
or  chilly,  I  saw  my  eldest  boy  Homer 
busy  over  the  rain-water  hogshead,  in 
that  childish  experiment  at  partheno- 
genesis, the  changing  a  horse-hair  into 
a  water-snake.  An  immersion  of  six 
weeks  showed  no  change  in  the  obsti- 
nate filament.  Here  was  a  stroke  of 
unintended  sarcasm.  Had  I  not  been 
doing  in  my  study  precisely  what  my 
boy  was  doing  out  of  doors?  Had  my 
thoughts  any  more  chance  of  coming  to 
life  by  being  submerged  in  rhyme  than 
his  hair  by  soaking  in  water?  I  burned 
my  elegy  and  took  a  course  of  Ed- 
wards on  the  Will.  People  do  not 
make  poetry ;  it  is  made  out  of  them 
by  a  process  for  which  I  do  not  find 
myself  fitted.  Nevertheless,  the  writ- 
ing of  verses  is  a  good  rhetorical  exer- 
citation,  as  teaching  us  what  to  shun 
most  carefully  in  prose.  For  prose  be- 
witched is  like  window-glass  with  bub- 
bles in  it,  distorting  what  it  should 
show  with  pellucid  veracity." 

It  is  unwise  to  insist  on  doctrinal 
points  as  vital  to  religion.  The  Bread 
of  Life  is  wholesome  and  sufficing  in 
itself,  but  gulped  down  with  these  kick- 
shaws cooked  up  by  theologians,  it  is 
apt  to  produce  an  indigestion,  nay,  even 
at  last  an  incurable  dyspepsia  of  scep- 
ticism. 

One  of  the  most  inexcusable  weak- 
nesses of  Americans  is  in  signing  their 
names  to  what  are  called  credentials. 
But  for  my  interposition,  a  person  who 
shall  be  nameless  would  have  taken 
from  this  town  a  recommendation  for 
an  office  of  trust  subscribed  by  the  se- 
lectmen and  all  the  voters  of  both  par- 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


3*4 

ties,  ascribing  to  him  as  many  good 
qualities  as  if  it  had  been  his  tomb- 
stone. The  excuse  was  that  it  would 
be  well  for  the  town  to  be  rid  of  him, 
as  it  would  erelong  be  obliged  to  main- 
tain him.  I  would  not  refuse  my  name 
to  modest  merit,  but  I  would  be  as  cau- 
tious as  in  signing  a  bond.  [I  trust  I 
shall  be  subjected  to  no  imputation  of 
unbecoming  vanity,  if  I  mention  the 
fact  that  Mr.  W.  indorsed  my  own 
qualifications  as  teacher  of  the  high- 
school  at  Pequash  Junction.  J.  H.] 
When  I  see  a  certificate  of  character 
with  everybody's  name  to  it,  I  regard 
it  as  a  letter  of  introduction  from  the 
Devil.  Never  give  a  man  your  name 
unless  you  are  willing  to  trust  him  with 
your  reputation. 

There  seem  now-a-days  to  be  two 
sources  of  literary  inspiration,  —  ful- 
ness of  mind  and  emptiness  of  pocket. 

I  am  often  struck,  especially  in  read- 
ing Montaigne,  with  the  obviousness 
and  familiarity  of  a  great  writer's 
thoughts,  and  the  freshness  they  gain 
because  said  by  him.  The  truth  is,  we 
mix  their  greatness  with  all  they  say 
and  give  it  our  best  attention.  Johan- 
nes Faber  sic  cogitavit,  would  be  no 
enticing  preface  to  a  book,  but  an  ac- 
credited name  gives  credit  like  the  sig- 
nature of  a  note  of  hand.  It  is  the  ad- 
vantage of  fame  that  it  is  always  priv- 
ileged to  take  the  world  by  the  button, 
and  a  thing  is  weightier  for  Shake- 
speare's uttering  it  by  the  whole  amount 
of  his  personality. 

It  is  singular  how  impatient  men  are 
with  overpraise  of  others,  how  patient 
with  overpraise  of  themselves  ;  and  yet 
the  one  does  them  no  injury,  while  the 
other  may  be  their  ruin. 

People  are  apt  to  confound  mere  alert- 
ness of  mind  with  attention.  The  one 
is  but  the  flying  abroad  of  all  the 
faculties  to  the  open  doors  and  windows 
at  every  passing  rumor  ;  the  other  is 
the  concentration  of  every  one  of  them 
in  a  single  focus,  as  in  the  alchemist 
over  his  alembic  at  the  moment  of  ex- 


pected projection.  Attention  is  the 
stuff  that  memory  is  made  of,  and 
memory  is  accumulated  genius. 

Do  not  look  for  the  Millennium  as 
imminent.  One  generation  is  apt  to  get 
all  the  wear  it  can  out  of  the  cast 
clothes  of  the  last,  and  is  always  sure 
to  use  up  every  paling  of  the  old  fence 
that  will  hold  a  nail  in  building  the 
new. 

You  suspect  a  kind  of  vanity  in  my 
genealogical  enthusiasm.  Perhaps  you 
are  right  ;  but  it  is  a  universal  foible. 
Where  it  does  not  show  itself  in  a  per- 
sonal and  private  way,  it  becomes 
public  and  gregarious  We  flatter  our- 
selves in  the  Pilgrim  Fathers,  and  the 
Virginian  offshoot  of  a  transported  con- 
vict swells  with  the  fancy  of  a  cavalier 
ancestry.  Pride  of  birth,  I  have  no- 
ticed, takes  two  forms.  One  compla- 
cently traces  himself  up  to  a  coronet  ; 
another,  defiantly,  to  a  lapstone.  The 
sentiment  is  precisely  the  same  in  both 
cases,  only  that  one  is  the  positive  and 
the  other  the  negative  pole  of  it. 

Seeing  a  goat  the  other  day  kneeling 
in  order  to  graze  with  less  trouble,  if 
seemed  to  me  a  type  of  the  common 
notion  of  prayer.  Most  people  are 
ready  enough  to  go  down  on  their  kneei 
for  material  blessings,  but  how  few  for 
those  spiritual  gifts  which  alone  are  an 
answer  to  our  orisons,  if  we  but  knew 
it! 

Some  people,  now-a-days,  seem  to 
have  hit  upon  a  new  moralization  of  the 
moth  and  the  candle.  They  would 
lock  up  the  light  of  Truth,  lest  poor 
Psyche  should  put  it  out  in  her  effort 
to  draw  nigh  to  it. 


No.  X. 


MR.  HOSEA  BIGLOW  TO  THE 
EDITOR  OF  THE  ATLANTIC 
MONTHLY. 

Dear  Sir,  —  Your  letter  come  to  hati'f 
Requestin'  me  to  please  be  funny  ; 


THE   BIGLOHS  PAPERS. 


3iJ 


But  I  ain't  made  upon  a  plan 

Tliet   knows   wut's   comin',   gall   or 
honey  : 
Ther'  's  times  the  world  doos  look  so 
queer, 
Odd  fancies  come  afore  I  call  'em  ; 
An'  then  agin,  for  half  a  year, 

No  preacher   'thout   a   call  's  more 
solemn. 

You  're   'n  want  o'  sunthin'   light  an' 
cute, 

Rattlin'  an'  shrewd  an'  kin'  o'  jingle- 
ish, 
An'  wish,  pervidin'  it  'ould   suit, 

I  'd  take  an'  citify  my  English. 
I  keti  write  long- tailed,  ef  I  please,  — 

But  when  I  'mjokin',  no,  I  thankee; 
Then,  'fore  I  know  it,  my  idees 

Run  helter-skelter  into  Yankee. 

Sence  I  begun  to  scribble  rhyme, 

1  tell  ye  wut,  I  hain't  ben  foolin' ; 
The   parson's  books,   life,    death,   an* 
time 
Hev  took   some    trouble    with    my 
schoolin'  ; 
Nor  th'  airth  don't  git  put  out  with  me, 
Thet  love  her  'z  though  she  wuz  a 
woman  ; 
Why,  th'  ain't  a  bird  upon  the  tree 
But  half  forgives  my  bein'  human. 

An'  yit  I  love  th'  unhighschooled  way 
OF  farmers  hed  when  I  wuz  younger  ; 
Their  talk  wuz  meatier,  an'  'ould  stay, 
While  book-froth  seems  to  whet  your 
hunger ; 
For  puttin'  in  a  downright  lick 
'Twixt  Humbug's  eyes,  ther'  *s  few 
can  metch  it, 
An'  then  it  helves  my  thoughts  ez  slick 
Ez    stret-grained     hickory     doos     a 
hetchet. 

But  when  I  can't,  I  can't,  thet  's  all, 

For  Natur'  won't  put  up  with  gullin' ; 
Idees  you  hev  to  shove  an'  haul 

Like  a  druv  pig  ain't  wuth  a  mullein  : 
Live  thoughts  ain't  sent  for  ;  thru  all 
rifts 
O'  sense  they  pour  an'  resh  ye  on- 
wards. 


Like  rivers  when  south-lyin'  drifts 
Feel  thet  th'  old  airth  's  a-wheelin' 
sunwards. 

Time  wuz,  the  rhymes  come  crowdin 
thick 
Ez  office-seekers  arter  'lection, 
An'  into  ary  place  'ould  stick 

Without  no  bother  nor  objection  ; 
But  sence  the  war  my  thoughts  hang 
back 
Ez  though  I  wanted  to  enlist  'em, 
An'  subs'tutes,  — they  don't  never  lack, 
But  then  they   11  slope  afore  you  've 
mist  'em. 

Nothin'  don't  seem  like  wut  it  wuz; 

I  can't  see  wut  there  is  to  hender, 

An'  yit  my  brains  jes'  go  buzz,  buzz, 

Like  bumblebees  agin  a  winder  ; 
'Fore  these  times  come,  in  all  airth's 
row, 
Ther'  wuz  one  quiet  place,  my  head 
in. 
Where  I  could  hide  an'  think,  —  but 
now 
It  's  all  one  teeter,  hopin',  dreadin'. 

Where  's  Peace  ?     I  start,  some  clear- 
blown  night, 
When  gaunt  stone  walls  grow  numb 
an'  number, 
An',    creakin'    'cross    the    snow-crus* 
white, 
Walk  the  col'  starlight  into  summer  ; 
Up  grows  the  moon,  an'  swell  by  swell 
Thru  the  pale  pasturs  silvers  dimmer 
Than  the  last  smile  thet  strives  to  tell 
O'  love  gone  heavenward  in  its  shim- 
mer. 

I  hev  ben  gladder  o'  sech  things 

Than  cocks  o'  spring  or  bees  o'  clover, 
They  filled  my  heart  with  livin'  springs, 

But   now  they  seem   to  freeze   'em 
over; 
Sights  innercent  ez  babes  on  knee, 

Peaceful  ez  eyes  o'  pastur'd  cattle, 
Jes'  coz  they  be  so,  seem  to  me 

To   rile   me  more  with  thoughts  o' 
battle. 

In-doors  an'  out  by  spells  I  try  ; 
Ma'am  Natur'  keeps  her  spin-whetf 
goin', 


316 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


But  leaves  my  natur'  stiff  and  dry 
Ez  fiel's  o'  clover  arter  mowin'  ; 

An'  her  jes'  keepin'  on  the  same, 
Calmer  'n  a  clock,  an'  never  carin', 

An'  findin'  nary  thing  to  blame, 
Is  wus  than  ef  she  took  to  swearin'. 

Snow-flakes  come   whisperin'   on   the 
pane 
The   charm   makes   blazin'   logs    so 
pleasant, 
But  I  can't  hark  to  wut  they  're  say'n', 
With  Grant  or  Sherman  oilers  pres- 
ent ; 
The  chimbleys  shudder  in  the  gale, 
Thet  lulls,  then  suddin  takes  to  flap- 
pin' 
Like  a  shot  hawk,  but  all  's  ez  stale 
To  me  ez  so  much  sperit-rappin'. 

Under  the  yaller-pines  I  house, 

When  sunshine  makes 'em  all  sweet- 
scented, 
An'  hear  among  their  furry  boughs 

The    baskin'   west-wind    purr    con- 
tented, 
While  'way  o'erhead,  ez  sweet  an'  low 

Ez  distant  bells  thet  ring  formeetin', 
The  wedged  wil'  geese  their  bugles  blow, 

Further  an'  further  South  retreatin'. 

Or  up  the  slippery  knob  I  strain 

An'  see  a  hundred  hills  like  islan's 
Lift  their  blue  woods  in  broken  chain 

Out  o'  the  sea  o'  snowy  silence  ; 
The   farm -smokes,   sweetes'   sight   on 
airth, 

Slow  thru  the  winter  air  a-shrinkin' 
Seem  kin'  o'  sad,  an'  roun'  the  hearth 

Of  empty  places  set  me  thinkin'. 

Beaver  roars  hoarse  with  meltin'  snows, 

An'  rattles  di'mon's  from  his  granite  ; 
Time  wuz,  he  snatched  away  my  prose, 

An'  into  psalms  or  satires  ran  it ; 
But  he,  nor  all  the  rest  thet  once 

Started  my  blood  to  country-dances, 
Can't  set  me  goin'  more  'n  a  dunce 

Thet  hain't   no  use  for  dreams  an: 
fancies. 

Rat-tat-tat-tattle  thru  the  street 
I  hear  the  drummers  makin'  riot. 


An'  I  set  thinkin'  o'  the  feet 

Thet    follered    once    an'    now    are 
quiet,  — 
White  feet  ez  snowdrops  innercent, 
Thet    never   knowed    the   paths   o' 
Satan, 
Whose  comin'  step   ther'  's   ears  thet 
won't, 
No,  not  lifelong,  leave  offawaitin'. 

Why,  hain't  I  held  'em  on  my  knee  ? 

Did  n't  I  love  to  see  'em  growin', 
Three  likely  lads  ez  wal  could  be, 

Hahnsome    an'    brave    an'    not    tu 
knowin'  ? 
I  set  an'  look  into  the  blaze 

Whose  natur',  jes'  like  theirn,  keeps 
climbin', 
Ez  long  'z  it  lives,  in  shinin'  ways, 

An'  half  despise  myself  for  rhymin'. 

Wut 's  words  to  them  whose  faith  an' 
truth 
Ou   War's   red   techstone   rang  true 
metal, 
Who  ventered  life  an'  love  an'  youth 

For  the  gret  prize  o'  death  in  battle  ? 
To  him  who,  deadly  hurt,  agen 

Flashed  on  afore  the  charge's  thun- 
der, 
Tippin'  with  fire  the  bolt  of  men 

Thet  rived  the  Rebel  line  asunder  ? 
T  ain't  right  to  hev  the  young  go  fust, 
All  throbbin'  full  o'  gifts  an'  graces, 
Leavin'  life's  paupers  dry  ez  dust 
To   try    an'    make   b'lieve   fill  their 
places  : 
Nothin'  but  tells  us  wut  we  miss, 
Ther'  's  gaps  our  lives  can't  never 
fay  in, 
An'  thet  world  seems  so  fur  from  this 
Lef '  for  us  loafers  to  grow  gray  in  ! 

My  eyes  cloud  up  for  rain  :  my  mouth 

Will  take  to  twitchin'  roun'  the  cor- 
ners ; 
I  pity  mothers,  tu,  down  South, 

For  all  they  sot  among  the  scorners: 
I  'd  sooner  take  my  chance  to  stan' 

At   Jedgment   where   your  meanest 
slave  is, 
Than  ■w.  God's  bar  hoi'  up  a  han' 

Ez  drippin'  red  cz  yourn,  Jeff  Davis' 


THE   BIGLOIV  PAPERS. 


3»7 


Come,    Peace  1    not    like    a    mourner 
bowed 
For  honor  lost  an'  dear  ones  wasted, 
But  proud,  to  meet  a  people  proud, 

With  eyes  thet  tell  o'  triumph  tasted  ! 
Come,  with  han'  grippin'  on  the  hilt, 
An'   step   thet   proves    ye   Victory's 
daughter  I 
Longin'  for  you,  our  sperits  wilt 

Like  shipwrecked  men's  on  raPs  for 
water. 

Come,  while  our  country  feels  the  lift 

Of  a  gret  instinct  shoutin'  forwards, 
An'  knows  thet  freedom  ain't  a  gift 

Thet  tarries  long  in  han's  o'  cowards  ! 
Come,  sech    ez    mothers  prayed    for, 
when 

They  kissed  their  cross  with  lips  thet 
quivered, 
An'  bring  fair  wages  for  brave  men, 

A  nation  saved,  a  race  delivered  ! 


No.  XI. 

MR.  HOSEA  BIGLOW'S  SPEECH 
IN  MARCH  MEETING. 

TO    THE     EDITOR     OF    THE    ATLANTIC 
MONTHLY. 

JAALAM.  April  5,  1866. 

Mv  dear  Sir,  — 

(an'  noticin'  by  yourkiverthet  you  're 
some  dearer  than  wut  you  wuz,  I  en- 
close the  deffrence)  I  dunno  ez  I  know 
jest  how  to  interdroce  this  las'  perduc- 
tion  of  my  mews,  ez  Parson  Willber 
alius  called  'em,  which  is  goin'  to  be 
the  last  an'  stay  the  last  onless  sunthin' 
pertikler  sh'd  interfear  which  I  don't 
expec'  ner  I  wun't  yield  tu  ef  it  wuz  ez 
pressin'  ez  a  deppity  Shiriff.  Sence 
Mr.  Wilbur's  disease  I  hev  n't  hed  no 
one  thet  could  dror  out  my  talons.  He 
ust  to  kind  o'  wine  me  up  an'  set  the 
penderlum  agoin'  an'  then  somehow  I 
seemed  to  go  on  tick  as  it  wear  tell  I 
run  down,  but  the  noo  minister  ain't 
of  the  same  brewin'  nor  I  can't  seem 
to  git  ahold  of  no  kine  of  huming  nater 


in  him  but  sort  of  slide  rite  off  as  you 
du  on  the  eedge  of  a  mow.  "Minny- 
steenl  natur  is  wal  enough  an'  a  site 
better  'n  most  other  kines  I  know  on. 
but  the  other  sort  sech  as  Welbor  hed 
wuz  of  the  Lord's  makin'  an'  naterally 
more  wonderfle  an'  sweet  tastin'  least 
ways  to  me  so  fur  as  heerd  from.  He 
used  to  interdooce  'em  smooth  ez  ile 
athout  sayin'  nothin'  in  pertickleran'  I 
misdoubt  he  did  n't  set  so  much  by  the 
sec'nd  Ceres  as  wut  he  done  by  the 
Fust,  fact^  he  let  on  onct  thet  his  mine 
misgive  him  of  a  sort  of  falhn'  off  in 
spots.  He  wuz  as  outspoken  as  a  nor- 
wester  he  wuz,  but  I  tole  him  I  hoped 
the  fall  wuz  Irom  so  high  up  thet  a  fel- 
ler could  ketch  a  good  many  times  fust 
afore  comin'  bunt  onto  the  ground  as  I 
see  Jethro  C.  Swett  from  the  meetin' 
house  steeple  up  to  th'  old  perrish,  an' 
took  up  for  dead  but  he  s  alive  now  an' 
spry  as  wut  you  be.  Turnin'  of  it  over 
I  recclected  how  they  ust  to  put  wut 
they  called  Argymunce  onto  the  frunts 
of  poymns,  like  poorches  afore  housen 
whare  you  could  rest  ye  a  spell  whilst 
you  wuz  concludin'  whether  you  'd  go 
in  or  nut  espeshully  ware  tha  wuz  dar- 
ters, though  I  most  alius  found  it  the 
best  plen  to  go  in  fust  an'  think  after- 
wards an'  the  gals  likes  it  best  tu.  I 
dno  as  speechis  ever  hez  any  argimunts 
to  'em,  I  never  see  none  thet  hed  an'  I 
guess  they  never  du  but  tha  must  alius 
be  a  B'ginnin'  to  everythin'  athout  it  is 
Etarnity  so  I  '11  begin  rite  away  an' 
anybody  may  put  it  afore  any  of  his 
speeches  ef  it  soots  an'  welcome.  I 
don't  claim  no  paytent. 

THE   ARGYMUNT. 

Tnterducshin,  w'ich  may  be  skipt. 
Begins  bv  talkin'  about  himself :  thet 's 
jest  natur  an'  most  gin'ally  alius  pleas- 
in\  I  b'leeve  I  've  notist,  to  one  of  the 
cumpany,  an'  thet  's  more  than  wut  you 
can  say  of  most  speshes  of  talkin'. 
Nex'  comes  the  gittin'  the  goodwill  of 
the  orjunce  by  lettin'  'em  gether  from 
wut  you  kind  of  ex'dentallv  let  drop 
thet  they  air  about  East,  A  one,  an'  no 
mistaik,  skare  'em  up  an'  take  'em  as 


3i8 


THE  B I  GLOW  PAPERS. 


they  rise.  Spring  interdooced  with  a 
fiew  approput  flours.  Speach  finally 
begins  witch  nobuddy  need  n't  feel 
obolygated  to  read  as  I  never  read  'em 
an'  never  shell  this  oneag'in.  Subjick 
staited  ;  expanded  ;  delayted  ;  extended. 
Pump  lively.  Subjick  staited  ag'in  so's 
to  avide  all  mistaiks.  Ginnle  remarks  ; 
continooed  ;  kerried  on  ;  pushed  fur- 
der ;  kind  o'  gin  out.  Subjick  re- 
staited ;  dielooted  ;  stirred  up  permis- 
coous.  Pump  ag'in.  Gits  back  to 
where  he  sot  out.  Can't  seem  to  stay 
thair.  Ketches  into  Mr.  Seaward's 
hair.  Breaks  loose  ag'in  an'  staits  his 
subjick ;  stretches  it  ;  turns  it  ;  folds 
it ;  onfolds  it  ;  folds  it  ag'in  so  's  't  no 
one  can't  find  it.  Argoos  with  an  im- 
edginary  bean  thet  ain't  aloud  to  say 
nothin'  in  repleye.  Gives  him  a  real 
good  dressin'  an'  is  settysfide  he  'srite. 
Gits  into  Johnson's  hair.  No  use  tryin' 
to  git  into  his  head.  Gives  it  up.  Hez 
tostait  his  subjick  ag'in  ;  doos  it  back- 
'ards,  sideways,  eendways,  criss-cross, 
bevellin',  noways.  Gits  finally  red  on 
it.  Concloods.  Concloodsmore.  Reads 
some  xtrax.  Sees  his  subjick  a-nosin' 
round  arter  him  ag'in.  Tries  to  avide 
it.  Wun't  du.  Misstates  it.  Can't 
conjectur'  no  other  plawsable  way  of 
staytin'  on  it.  Tries  pump.  No  fx. 
Finely  concloods  to  conclood.  Yeels 
the  flore. 

You  kin  spall  an'  punctooate  thet  as 
you  please.  I  alius  do,  it  kind  of  puts 
a  noo  soot  of  close  onto  a  word.thisere 
funattick  spellin'  doos  an'  takes  'em 
out  of  the  prissen  dress  they  wair  if  the 
Dixonary.  Ef  I  squeeze  the  cents  out 
of  'em  it  's  the  main  thing,  an'  wut 
they  wuz  made  for ;  wut  's  left  's  jest 
pummis. 

Mistur  Wilbur  sez  he  to  me  onct, 
sez  he,  "  Hosee,"  sez  he,  "in  littery- 
toor  the  only  good  thing  is  Natur.  It 's 
amazin'  hard  to  come  at,"  sez  he,  "  but 
onct  git  it  an'  you  've  gut  everythin'. 
Wut  's  the  sweetest  small  on  airth  ?  " 
sez  he.  "  Noomone  hay,"  sez  I,  pooty 
bresk,  for  he  wuz  alius  hankerin'  round 
in  hayin  .  "  Nawthin'  of  the  kine," 
sez  he.  "  My  leetle  Huldy's  breath," 
sez  I  ag'in.     "  You  're  a  good  lad,"  sez 


he,  his  eyes  sort  of  ripplin'  like,  for  he 
lost  a  babe  onct  nigh  about  her  age,  — 
"  You  're  a  good  lad  ;  but  't  ain't  thet 
nuther,"  sez  he.  "  Ef  you  want  to 
know,"  sez  he,  "  open  your  winder  of  a 
mornin'  et  ary  season,  and  you  '11  lam 
thet  the  best  of  perfooms  is  jest  fresh 
a\r, fresh  air,"  sez  he,  emphysizin', 
"  athout  no  mixtur.  Thet 's  wut  /  call 
natur  in  writin',  and  it  bathes  my  lungs 
and  washes  'em  sweet  whenever  i  git  a 
whiff  on  't,"  sez  he.  I  offen  thijik  o' 
thet  when  I  set  down  to  write,  bui  the 
winders  air  so  ept  to  git  stuck,  an' 
breakin'  a  pane  costs  sunthin'. 
Yourn  for  the  last  time, 

Nut  to  be  continooed, 

HOSEA    BlGLOW. 


I  don't  much  s'pose,  hows'ever  I  should 

plen  it, 
I  could  git  boosted  into  th'  House  or 

Sennit,  — 
Nut  while  the  twolegged  gab-machine  's 

so  plenty, 
'Nablin'    one  man  to  du   the   talk   o' 

twenty  ; 
I  'm  one  o'  them  thet  finds  it  ruther 

hard 
To  mannyfactur'  wisdom  by  the  yard, 
An'  maysure  off,  accordin'  to  demand, 
The  piece-goods  el'kence  that  I  keep 

on  hand, 
The  same  ole  pattern  runnin'  thru  an' 

thru, 
An'  nothin'  but  the   customer  thet 's 

new. 
I  sometimes  think,  the  furder  on  I  go, 
Thet  it  gits  harder  to  feel  sure  I  know, 
An'  when  I  've  settled  my  idees,  I  find 
'T  warn't  I  sheered  most  in  makin'  up 

my  mind  ; 
'T  wuz  this  an'  thet  an' t'  other  thing 

thet  done  it, 
Sunthin'  in  th'  air,  I  could  n'  seek  nor 

shun  it. 
Mos'  folks  go  off  so  quick  now  in  dis- 
cussion, 
All  th'  ole  flint  locks  seems  altered  to 

percussion, 
Whilst  I  in  agin'  sometimes  git  a  hin* 


THE   B1GL01V  PAPERS. 


3'9 


Thet  I  m  percussion  changin'  back  to 

flint; 
Wal,  ef  it  's  so,  I  ain't  agoin'  to  werrit, 
For  th'  ole  Queen's-arrn  hez  this  per- 

tickler  merit,  — 
It  gives  the  mind  a  hahnsome  wedth  o' 

margin 
To  kin'  o'  make  its  will  afore  discharg- 

in' : 
I  can't  make  out  but  jest  one  ginnle 

rule, — 
No  man  need  go  an'  make  himself  a 

fool, 
Nor  jedgment  ain't  like  mutton,  thet 

can't  bear 
Cookin'  tu  long,  nor  be  took  up  tu  rare. 

Ez  I  wuz  say'n',  I  hain't  no  chance  to 

speak 
So  's  't  all  the  country  dreads  me  onct  a 

week, 
But  I  've  consid'bleo'  thet  sort  o'  head 
Thet  sets  to  home  an'  thinks  wut  might 

be  said, 
The  sense  thet  grows  an'  werrits  under- 
neath, 
Comin'  belated  like  your  wisdom-teeth, 
An'   git  so  el'kent,  sometimes,  to  my 

gardin 
Thet  I  don'  vally  public  life  a  fardin'. 
Our  Parson   Wilbur  (blessin's  on   his 

head  !) 
'Mongst  other  stories  of  ole  times  he 

hed, 
Talked  of  a  feller  thet  rehearsed   his 

spreads 
Beforehan'   to   his  rows    o'    kebbige- 

heads, 
(Ef  't  war  n't   Demossenes,  I  guess  't 

•  wuz  Sisro,) 
Appealin'  fust  to  thet  an'  then  to  this 

row, 
Accordin'  ez  he  thought  thet  his  idees 
Their  diff  runt  ev'riges  o'  brains  'ould 

please  ; 
"An',"  sez  the  Parson,  "to  hit  right, 

you  must 
Git  used  to  maysurin'  your  hearers  fust ; 
For,  take  my  word  for  't,  when  all 's 

come  an'  past, 
The  kebbige-heads  '11  cair  the  day  et 

last ; 
Th*  ain't  ben  a  meetin'  sence  the  worl' 

begun 


But  they  made  (raw  or  'oil'::  ones)  ten 
to  one." 

I  've    alius   foun'  'em,  I  allow,  sence 

then 
About  ez  good  for  talkin'  to  ez  men  ; 
They  '11  take  edvice,  like  other  folks,  to 

keep, 
(To  use   it  'ould  be   holdin'   on   't  tu 

cheap,) 
They  listen  wal,  don'  kick  up  when  you 

scold  'em, 
An'    ef   they  've    tongues,   hev    sense 

enough  to  hold  'em  ; 
Though  th'  ain't  no  denger  we  shall 

lose  the  breed, 
I  gin'lly  keep  a  score  or  so  for  seed, 
An'  when  my   sappiness  gits   spry   in 

spring, 
So  's  't  my  tongue  itches  to  run  on  full 

swing, 
I    fin'    'em   ready-planted   in    March- 

meetin', 
Warm  ez  a  lyceum-audience  in   their 

greetin', 
An'  pleased  to  hear  my  spoutin'  frutn 

the  fence,  — 
Comin',  ez  't  doos,  entirely  free  'f  ex- 
pense. 
This  year  I  made  the  follerin'  observa- 
tions 
Extrump'ry,    like   most  other  tri'ls  o' 

patience, 
An',  no  reporters  bein'  sent  express 
To  work  their  abstrac's  up  into  a  mess 
Ez  like   th'    oridg'nal    ez   a  woodcut 

pictur' 
Thet  chokes  the  life  out  like  a  boy- 
constrictor, 
I  've   writ   'em   out,   an'   so  avide   all 

jeal'sies 
'Twixt  nonsense  o'  my  own  an'  some 
one's  else's. 

(N.  B.  Reporters  gin'lly  git  a  hint 
To  make  dull  orjunces  seem  'live  In 

print, 
An',  ez  I  hev  t'  report  myself,  I  vum, 
I  '11  put   th'   applauses  where    they  'd 

ot<g-/i'  to  come  !) 

Mv  FELLER  KEBBIGE-HEADS,  who  look 

so  green, 
I    I  vow  to  gracious  thet  ef  I  cutt'd  dteen 


3^ 


THE   BIGLOIV  FAFERS. 


The  world  of  all  its  hearers  but  jest  you, 

'T  would  leave  'bout  all  tha'  is  wuth 
talkin'  to, 

An'  you,  my  ven'able  ol'  frien's,  thet 
show 

Upon  your  crowns  a  sprinklin'  o'  March 
snow, 

Ez  ef  mild  Time  had  christened  every 
sense 

For  wisdom's  church  o'  second  inno- 
cence, 

Nut  Age's  winter,  no,  no  sech  a  thing, 

But  jest  a  kin'  o'  slippin'-back  o' 
spring,  —  [Sev'ril  noses  blowed.] 

We  've  gathered  here,  ez  ushle,  to  de- 
cide 

Which  is  the  Lord's  an'  which  is  Sa- 
tan's side, 

Coz  all  the  good  or  evil  thet  can  heppen 

Is  'long  o'  which  on  'em  you  choose  for 
Cappen.  (Cries  o'  "  Thet 's  so  I "] 

Aprul  's  come  back  ;  the  swellin'  buds 

of  oak 
Dim  the  fur  hillsides  with   a  purplish 

smoke ; 
The  brooks  are  loose  an',  singing  to  be 

seen, 
(Like  gals,)  make  all  the  hollers  soft 

an'  green  ; 
The  birds  are  here,  for  all  the  season  's 

late  ; 
They  take   the   sun's  height  an'  don' 

never  wait  ; 
Soon  'z  he  officially  declares  it 's  spring 
Their  light  hearts  lift  'em  on  a  north- 

'ard  wing, 
An'  th'  ain't  an  acre,  fur  ez  you  can  hear, 
Can't  by  the  music  tell  the  time  o'  year ; 
But   thet   white    dove    Carliny   scared 

away, 
Five  year  ago,  jes'  sech  an  Aprul  day  ; 
Peace,  that  we  hoped  'ould  come  an' 

build  last  year 
An'    coo  by   every    housedoor,   is  n't 

here,  — 
No,  nor  wun't  never  be,  for  all  our  jaw, 
Till  we  're  ez  brave  in  pol'tics  ez  in  war  ! 
O  Lord,  ef  folks  wuz  made  so  's  't  they 

could  see 
The  begnet-pint  there  is  to  an  idee  ! 

[Sensation.] 
Ten  times  the  danger  in  'em  th'  is  in 

steel ; 


They  run  your  soul  thru  an'  you  never 
feel, 

"But  crawl  about  an'  seem  to  think 
you  're  livin', 

Poor  shells  o'  men,  nut  wuth  the  Lord's 
forgivin', 

Till  you  come  bunt  ag'in  a  real  live  feet, 

An'  go  to  pieces  when  you  'd  ough'  to 
ect  ! 

Thet  kin'  o'  begnet  's  wut  we  're  cross- 
in'  now, 

An'  no  man,  fit  to  nevvigate  a  scow, 

'Ould  Stan'  expectin'  help  from  King- 
dom Come, 

While  t'  other  side  druv  their  cold  iron 
home. 

My  frien's,  you  never  gethered  from  my 

mouth, 
No,  nut  one  word  ag'in  the  South  ez 

South, 
Nor  th'  ain't  a  livin'  man,  white,  brown, 

nor  black, 
Gladder  'n  wut  I  should  be  to  take  'em 

back  ; 
But  all  I  ask  of  Uncle  Sam  is  fust 
To  write  up  on  his  door,  "  No  goods  on 

trust "  ; 

[Cries  of  "  Thet 's  the  ticket !  "] 

Give  us  cash  down  in  ekle  laws  for  all, 
An'  they  '11  be  snug  inside  afore  nex' 

fall. 
Give  wut  they  ask,  an'  we  shell  hev 

Jamaker, 
Wuth  minus  some  consid'able  an  acre  ; 
Give  wut  they  need,  an'  we   shell  git 

'fore  long 
A  nation  all  one  piece,  rich,  peacefle, 

strong  ; 
Make  'em  Amerikin,  an'  they  '11  Begin 
To  love   their  country  ez  they  loved 

their  sin ; 
Let  'em  stay  Southun,  an'  you  've  kep' 

a  sore 
Ready  to  fester  ez  it  done  afore. 
No   mortle   man   can   boast  of  perfic' 

vision, 
But  the  one  moleblin'  thing  is  Indecis- 
ion, 
An'  th'  ain't  no  futur'  for  the  man  nor 

state 
Thet  out  of  j-u-s-t  can't  spell  great 
Some  folks  'ould  call  thet  reddikle ;  do 

you? 


THE   BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


321 


'T  was  commonsense  afore  the  war  wuz 

thru  ; 
Tktt  loaded  all  our  guns  an'  made  'em 

speak 
So  's  't  Europe  heared  'em  clearn  acrost 

the  creek  ; 
"They  're  drivin'  o'  their  spiles  down 

now,"  sez  she, 
"To   the   hard  grennit  o'   God's  fust 

idee ; 
Ef  they  reach  thet,  Democ'cy  need  n't 

fear 
The  tallest  airthquakes  we  can  git  up 

here." 
Some  call  't  insultin'  to  ask  ary  pledge, 
An'  say  't  will  only  set  their  teeth  on 

edge, 
But   folks  you  've  jest  licked,  fur  'z  I 

ever  see, 
Are  'bout  ez  mad  'z  they  wal  know  how 

to  be ; 
It 's  better  than  the  Rebs  themselves 

expected 
'Fore   they  see  Uncle  Sam  wilt  down 

henpected  ; 
Be  kind  'z  you  please,  but  fustly  make 

things  fast, 
For  plain  Truth  's  all  the  kindness  thet 

'11  last ; 
Ef  treason  is  a  crime,  ez  some  folks 

say, 
How  could  we  punish  it  a  milder  way 
Than  sayin'  to  'em,  "  Brethren,  lookee 

here, 
We  '11  jes'  divide  things  with  ye,  sheer 

an'  sheer, 
An   sence  both  come  o'  pooty  strong- 
backed  daddies, 
You  take  the  Darkies,  ez  we  've  took 

the  Paddies ; 
Ign'ant  an'  poor  we  took  'em  by  the 

hand, 
An'  they  're  the  bones  an'  sinners  o' 

the  land." 
I  ain't  o'  them  thet  fancy  there  's  a  loss 

on 
Every  inves'ment  thet  don't  start  from 

Bos'on  ; 
But  I  know  this :  our  money  's  safest 

trusted 
In  sunthin',  come  wut  will,  thet  can't 

be  busted, 
An'  thet 's  the  old  Amerikin  idee, 
To  make  a  man  a  Man  an'  let  him  be. 
[Gret  applause.] 


Ez  for  their  l'yalty,  don't  lake  a  goad 

to't, 
But  I  do'  want  to  block  their  only  road 

to  't 
By  lettin'  'em  believe  thet  they  can  git 
Mor  'n  wut  they  lost,  out  of  our  little 

wit  : 
I  tell  ye  wut,  I  'm  'fraid  we  '11  drif '  to 

leeward 
'Thout  we  can  put  more  stiffenin'  into 

Seward  ; 
He  seems  to  think  Columby  'd  better 

ect 
Like  a  scared  widder  with  a  boy  stiff- 
necked 
Thet  stomps  an'  swears  he  wun't  come 

in  to  supper ; 
She  raus'  set  up  for  him,  ez  weak  ez 

Tupper, 
Keepin'  the  Constitootion  on  to  warm, 
Tell  he  '11  eccept  her  'pologies  in  form  : 
The  neighbors  tell  her  he's  a  cross- 
grained  cuss 
Thet  needs  a  hidin'  'fore  he  comes  to 

wus  ; 
"  No,"  sez  Ma  Seward,  "  he  's  ez  good 

'z  the  best, 
All  he  wants  now  is  sugar-plums  an' 

rest  "  ; 
"  He  sarsed  my  Pa,"  sez  one  ;    "  He 

stoned  my  son," 
Another  edds.     "  O,  wal,  't  wuz  jest 

his  fun." 
"  He  tried  to  shoot  our  Uncle  Samwell 

dead." 
"  'T  wuz  only  tryin'  a  noogun  he  hed." 
"  Wal,  all  we  ask  's  to  hev  it  under- 
stood 
You  '11  take  his  gun  away  from  him  for 

good ; 
We   don't,  wal,  nut  exac'ly,   like  his 

play, 
Seein'  he  alius  kin'  o'  shoots  our  way. 
You  kill  your  fatted  calves  to  no  good 

eend, 
'Thout  his  fust  sayin',  '  Mother,  I  hev 

sinned  ! '" 
I"  Amen  !  "  frum  Deac'n  Greenleaf.] 

The  Pres'dunt  he  thinks  thet  the  slick- 
est plan 

'Ould  be  t'  allow  thet  he  's  our  on'y 
man, 

An'  thet  we  fit  thru  all  thet  dreffle  war 

Jes'  for  his  private  glory  an'  eclor ; 


3" 


THE   B I  GLOW  PAPERS. 


"  Nobody  ain't  a  Union  man,"  sez  he, 
"'Thout  he  agrees,  thru  thick  an'  thin, 

with  me  ; 
War  n't  Andrew  Jackson's  'nitials  jes' 

like  mine  ? 
An'   ain't    thet  sunthin'  like   a  right 

divine 
To  cut  up  ez  kentenkerous  ez  I  please, 
An'  treat  your  Congress  like  a  nest  o' 

fleas?" 
Wal,    I   expec'   the    People    would  n' 

care,  if 
The  question  now  wuz  techin'  bank  or 

tariff, 
But  I  conclude  they  've  'bout  made  up 

their  mind 
This  ain't  the  fittest  time  to  go  it  blind, 
Nor    these    ain't    metters    thet    with 

pol'tics  swings, 
But  goes  'way  down  amongst  the  roots 

o'  things  ; 
Coz    Sumner   talked   o'   whitewashin' 

one  day 
They    wun't   let    four   years'    war  be 

throwed  away. 
"  Let  the  South  hev  her  rights  ?  "  They 

say,    "  Thet 's  you  ! 
But  nut  greb  hold  of  other  folks's  tu." 
Who   owns  this  country,   is  it  they  or 

Andy? 
Leastways   it  ough'  to  be  the   People 

and  he  ; 
Let  him  be  senior  pardner,  ef  he  's  so, 
But  let  them  kin'  o'  smuggle  in  ez  Co  ; 
[Laughter.] 

Did  he  diskiver  it?  Consid'ble  num- 
bers 

Think  thet  the  job  wuz  taken  by  Co- 
lumbus. 

Did  he  set  tu  an'  make  it  wut  it  is  ? 

Ef  so,  I  guess  the  One-Man-power  hez 
riz. 

Did  he  put  thru  the  rebbles,  clear  the 
docket, 

An'  pay  th'  expenses  out  of  his  own 
pocket  ? 

Ef  thet 's  the  case,  then  everythin'  I 
exes 

Is  t'  hev  him  come  an'  pay  my  ennooal 
texes.  [Profound  sensation.] 

Was  't  he  thet  shou'dered  all  them 
million  guns? 

Did  he  lose  all  the  fathers,  brothers, 


Is   this  ere   pop'lar  gov'ment  thet  we 

run 
A  kin'  o'  sulky,  made  to  kerry  one  ? 
An'  is   the   country  goin'    to  knuckle 

down 
To  hev  Smith  sort  their  letters  'stid  o' 

Brown  ? 
Who  wuz  the  'Nited  States  'fore  Rich- 

mon'  fell  ? 
Wuz  the  South  needfle  their  full  name 

to  spell  ? 
An'  can't  we  spell  it  in  thet  short-han' 

way 
Till  th'  underpinnin'  's  settled  so  's  to 

stay? 
Who  cares  for  the  Resolves  of  '61, 
Thet  tried  to  coax  an  airthquake  with 

a  bun? 
Hez  act'ly  nothin'   taken  place  sence 

then 
To   lam  folks   they  must  hendle  fects 

like  men  ? 
Ain't   this   the   true   p'int?      Did   the 

Rebs  accep'  'em ' 
Ef  nut,  whose  fault  is  't  thet  we  hev  n'r 

kep'  'em  ? 
War  n't  there  two  sides?  an'  don't  it 

stend  to  reason 
Thet   this  week's  'Nited   States  ain't 

las'  week's  treason  ? 
When   all   these   sums   is   done,   with 

nothin'  missed. 
An'  nut   afore,  this  school  '11  be   dis- 
missed. 

I  knowed  ez  wal  ez  though  I  'd  seen  't 
with  eyes 

Thet  when  the  war  wuz  over  copper  'd 
rise. 

An'  thet  we  'd  hev  a  rile-up  in  our 
kettle 

'T  would  need  Leviathan's  whole  skin 
to  settle  : 

I  thought 't  would  take  about  a  genera- 
tion 

'Fore  we  could  wal  begin  to  be  a  na- 
tion, 

But  I  allow  I  never  did  imegine 

'T  would  be  our  Pres'dunt  thet  'ould 
drive  a  wedge  in 

To  keep  the  split  from  closin'  ef  it 
could, 

An'  healin'  over  with  new  wholesomo 
wood  ; 


THE  B I  GLOW  PAPERS. 


■Hi 


For  tli'  ain't  no  chance  o'  healin'  while 

they  think 
Thet  law  an'  gov'ment  's  only  printer's 

ink  ; 
I  mus'   confess  I  thank   him    for  dis- 

coverin' 
The  curus  way  in  which  the  States  are 

sovereign  ; 

They  ain't  nut  quite  enough  so  to  rebel, 

But,  when  they  fin'  it  's  costly  to  raise 

h  — ,  [A  groan  from  Deac'n  G.| 

Why,  then,  for  jes'  the  same  superl'- 

tive  reason, 
They  're  'most  too  much  so  to  be  tetched 

for  treason  ; 
They  can't  go  out,  but  ef  they  somehow 

du, 
Their  sovereignty  don't  noways  go  out 

tu; 
The   State   goes  out,  the  sovereignty 

don't  stir, 
But  stays  to  keep  the  door  ajar  for  her. 
He  thinks  secession  never  took  'em  out, 
An'  mebby  he  's  correc',  but   I   mis- 
doubt ; 
Ef  they  war  n't  out,  then  why,  'n  the 

name  o'  sin, 
Make  all  this  row  'bout  lettin'  of  'em 

in? 
In  law,  p'r'aps  nut :  but  there  's  a  dif- 

furence,  ruther, 
Betwixt   your  mother-'n-law    an'  real 
mother,  [Derisive  cheers.] 

An'  I,  for  one,  shall  wish  they  'd  all 

been  som'eres, 
Long  'z  U.  S.  Texes  are  sech  reg'lar 

comers. 
But,  O  my  patience  !  must  we  wriggle 

back 
Into  th'  ole  crooked,  pettyfoggin'  track, 
When   our   artil'ry-wheels  a  road  hev 

cut 
Stret  to  our  purpose  ef  we  keep  the  rut  ? 
War  's  jes'  dead  waste  excep'  to  wipe 

the  slate 
Clean  for  the  cyph'rin  of  some  nobler 
fate.  [Applause.] 

Ez  for  dependin'  on  their  oaths  an  thet, 
'T  wun't  bind  'em  mor  'n   the  ribbin 

roun'  my  het ; 
I   heared  a  fable  once  from   Othniel 

Status, 


That  pints  it  slick  ez  weathercocks  rlo 

barns  : 
Onct  on  a  time  the  wolves  hed  certing 

rights 
Inside  the  fold  ;  they  used  to  sleep  there 

nights. 
An',  bein'  cousins  o'   the  dogs,   they 

took 
Their  turns  et  watchin',  reg'lar   ez  a 

book ; 
But  somehow,  when  the  dogs  hed  gut 

asleep, 
Their  love  o'  mutton  beat  their  love  o' 

sheep, 
Till  gradilly  the  shepherds  come  to  see 
Things  war  n't  agoin'  ez  they  'd  ough' 

to  be; 
So  they  sent  off  a  deacon  to  remonstrate 
Along  'th  the  wolves  an'  urge  'em  to 

go  on  straight  ; 
They  did  n'  seem  to  set  much  by  the 

deacon, 
Nor  preachin'  did  n'  cow  'em,  nut  to 

speak  on  ; 
Fin'ly  they  swore  thet  they  'd  go  out 

an'  stay, 
An'  hev  their  fill  o'  mutton  every  day  ; 
Then  dogs  an'  shepherds,  after  much 
hard  dammin', 

[Groan  from  Deac'n  G.] 
Turned   tu  an'  give  'em   a  tormented 

lammin', 
An'  sez,  "Ye  sha'  n't  go  out,  the  mur- 
rain rot  ye, 
To  keep  us  wastin'  half  our  time   to 

watch  ye  !  " 
But  then  the  question  come,  How  live 

together 
'Thout  losin'  sleep,  nor  nary  yew  nor 

wether? 
Now   there   wuz   some   dogs    (noways 

wuth  their  keep) 
Thet  sheered  their  cousins'  tastes  an' 

sheered  the  sheep; 
They  sez,  "  Be  gin'rous,  let  'em  swear 

right  in, 
An',  ef  they  backslide,  let  'em  swear 

ag'in  ; 
Jes'  let  'em  put  on  sheep-skins  whilst 

they  're  swearin'  ; 
To   ask   for  more  'ould   be  beyond  all 

bearin'." 
"  Be  gin'rous  for  yourselves,  where  you 
're  to  pay, 


3^4 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


Thet  's  the  best  prectice,"  sez  a  shep- 
herd gray  ; 

"  Ez  for  their  oaths  they  wun't  be  wuth 
a  button, 

Long   'z   you    don't   cure   'em  o'  their 
taste  for  mutton  ; 

Th'  ain't  but  one  solid  way,  howe'er 
you  puzzle  : 

Tell  they  're  convarted,  let  'em  wear  a 
muzzle." 

[Cries  of  ' '  Bully  for  you  !  "J 

I  've    noticed    thet    each    half-baked 

scheme's  abetters 
Are  in  the  hebbit  o'  producin'  letters 
Writ  by   all  sorts  o'   never-heared-on 

fellers, 
'Bout   ez    oridge'nal   ez  the    wind  in 

bellers ; 
I  've  noticed,  tu,  it's  the  quack  med'- 

cines  gits 
(An'  needs)  the  grettest  heaps  o'  stiffy- 

kits  ; 

[Two  apothekeries  goes  out.] 

Now,  sence   I  lef '  off  creepin'  on  all 

fours, 
I    hain't    ast   no   man  to  endorse   my 

course  ; 
It 's  full  ez  cheap  to  be  your  own  en- 
dorser, 
An'  ef  I  've  made  a  cup,  I  'II  fin'  the 

saucer ; 
But  I  've  some  letters  here  from  t'  other 

side, 
An'  them  's  the  sort  thet  helps  me  to 

decide ; 
Tell  me  for  wut  the  copper-comp'nies 

hanker, 
An'  I  '11  tell  you  jest  where  it 's  safe  to 

anchor.  [Faint  hiss.] 

Fus'ly  the  Hon'ble  B.  O.  Sawin  writes 
Thet   for  a   spell   he   could  'n  sleep  o' 

nights, 
Puzzlin'  which  side  wuz  preudentest  to 

pin  to, 
Which  wuz   th'  ole  homestead,  which 

the  temp'ry  leanto : 
Et  fust  he  jedged  't  would  right-side-up 

his  pan 
To   come    out   ez  a   'ridge'nal  Union 

man, 
"But  now,"  he  sez,  "I  ain't  nut  quite 

so  fresh ; 
The  winnin'  horse  isgoin'  to  be  Secesh ; 


You    might,    las'    spring,    hey    eas'N 

walked  the  course, 
'Fore  we  contrived  to  doctor  th'  Union 

horse  ; 
Now  me  're  the  ones  to  walk  aroun'  tha 

nex'  track  : 
Jest  you  take  hold  an'  read  the  follerin' 

extrac', 
Out  of  a  letter  I  received  last  week 
From  an  ole  frien'  thet  never  sprung  a 

leak, 
A  Nothun  Dem'crat  o'  th'  ole  Jarsey 

blue, 
Born  copper-sheathed  an'  copper-fast- 
ened tu." 

"These  four  years  past  it  hez  been 

tough 
To  say  which  side  a  feller  went  for ; 
Guideposts  all  gone,  roads  muddy  'n' 

rough. 
An' nothin' duin'  wut  't  wuz  meant  for: 
Pickets  a-firin'  left  an'  right, 
Both  sides  a  lettin'  rip  et  sight,  — 
Life  warn't  wuth  hardly  payin'  rent  for. 

"  Columby  gut  her  back  up  so, 
It  warn't  no  use  a-tryin'  to  stop  her,  — 
War's  emptin's  riled  her  very  dough 
An'  made  it  rise  an'  act  improper; 
'Twuz  full  ez  much  ez  I  could  du 
To  jes'  lay  low  an'  worry  thru, 
'Thout  hevin'  to  sell  out  my  copper 

"Afore  the  war  your  mod'rit  men 

Could  set  an'  sun  'em  on  the  fences, 

Cyph'rin'  the  chances  up,  an'  then 

Jump  off  which  way  bes'  paid  expenses  ; 

Sence,  't  wus  so  resky  ary  way, 

/  didn't  hardly  darst  to  say 

I  'greed  with  Paley's  Evidences. 

[Groan  from  Deac'n  G. 

"  Ask  Mac  ef  tryin'  to  set  the  fence 
Warn't  like  bein'  rid  upon  a  rail  on 't, 
Headin'  your  party  with  a  sense 
O'  bein'  tipjint  in  the  tail  on  't, 
And  tryin'  to  think  thet,  on  the  whole. 
You  kin'  o'  quasi  own  your  soul 
When  Belmont 's  gut  a  bill  o'  sale  on  '>? 
[Three  cheers  for  Grant  and  Sherman. 

"Come  peace,  I  sposed  thet  folks  'o-id 

like 
Their  pol'tics  done  ag'in  by  proxy 


THE  BIGLOIV  PAPERS. 


32$ 


Give  their  noo  loves  the  bag  an'  strike 
A  fresh  trade  with  their  reg'lar  doxy  ; 
Hut  the  drag  's  broke,   now  slavery  's 

gone, 
An'  there  'sgret  resk  they '11  blunder  on, 
Ef  they  ain't  stopped,  to  real  Democ'cy. 

"  We  've  gut  an  awful  row  to  hoe 
In  this  'ere  job  o'  reconstructin'  ; 
Folks  dunno  skuice  which  way  to  go, 
Where   th'  ain't  some  boghole  to  be 

ducked  in  ; 
But  one  thing  's  clear  ;  there  is  a  crack, 
Ef  we  pry  hard,  'twixt  white  an'  black, 
Where  the  old  makebate  can  be  tucked 

in. 

"  No  white  man  sets  in  airth's  broad 

aisle 
Thet  I  ain't  willin'  t'  own  ez  brother, 
An'  ef  he  's  heppened  to  strike  lie, 
I  dunno,  fin'ly,  but  I  'd  ruther  ; 
An'  Paddies,  long  'z  they  vote  all  right, 
Though  they  ain't  jest  a  nat'ral  white, 
I  hold  one  on  'em  good  'z  another. 

[Applause.] 

"  Wut  is  there  lef  I  'd  like  to  know, 
Ef  't  ain't  the  difference  o'  color, 
To  keep  up  self-respec'  an'  show 
The  human  natur'  of  a  fullah  ? 
Wut  good  in  bein'  white,  onless 
It  's  fixed  by  law,  nut  lef  to  guess, 
That  we  are  smarter  an'  they  duller  ? 

"  Ef  we  're  to  hev  our  ekle  rights, 
'T  wun't  du  to  'low  no  competition  ; 
Th'  ole  debt  doo  us  for  bein'  whites 
Ain't  safe  onless  we  stop  th'  emission 
O'  these  noo  notes,  whose  specie  base 
Is  human  natur',  'thout  no  trace 
O'  shape,  nor  color,  nor  condition. 

[Continood  applause.] 

"  So  fur  I  'd  writ  an'  could  n'  jedge 
Aboard  wut  boat  I  'd  best  take  pessige, 
My  brains   all   mincemeat,    'thout   no 

edge 
Upon  'em  more  than  tu  a  sessige, 
But  now  it  seems  ez  though  I  see 
Sunthin'  resemblin'  an  idee, 
Sence  Johnson's  speech  an'  veto  mes- 
sage 


"  I  like  the  speech  best,  I  confess, 
The   logic,    preudence,  an'  good  taste 

on  't, 
An'  it  's  so  mad,  I  ruther  guess 
There  's  some  dependence  to  be  placed 

on  't  :  ILaughier.l 

It  's  narrer,  but  'twixt  you  an'  me. 
Out  o'  the  allies  o'  J.  D. 
A  temp'ry  party  can  be  based  on  't. 

"  Jes'  to  hold  on  till  Johnson  's  thru 

An'  dug  his  Presidential  grave  is, 

An'  then  !  —  who  knows  but  we  could 

slew 

The  country  roun'  to  put  in ? 

Wun't  some   folks  rare   up  when   we 

pull 
Out  o'  their  eyes  our  Union  wool 
An'  lam  'em  wut  a  p'lit'cle  shave  is  I 

"  O,  did  it  seem  'z  ef  Providunce 
Could  ever  send  a  second  Tyler  ? 
To  see  the  South  all  back  to  once, 
Reapin'  the  spiles  o'  the  Freesiler, 
Is  cute  ez  though  an  ingineer 
Should  claim  th'  old  iron  for  his  sheer 
Coz  't  was  himself  that  bust  the  biler  !  " 
[Gret  laughter.] 

Thet  tells  the  story  !    Thet  's  wut  we 

shall  git 
By   tryin'   squirtguns   on   the    burnin' 

Pit; 
For  the  day  never  comes  when  it  '11 

du 
To  kick  off  Dooty  like  a  worn-out  shoe. 
I  seem  to  hear  a  whisperin'  in  the  air, 
A  sighin'  like,  of  unconsoled  despair, 
Thet   comes   from   nowhere   an'   from 

everywhere, 
An'  seems   to   say,  "  Why   died  we? 

war  n't  it,  then, 
To  settle,  once  for  all,  thet  men  wuz 

men  ? 
O,  airth's  sweet  cup  snetched  from  us 

barely  tasted, 
The  grave's  real  chill  is  feelin'  life  wuz 

wasted  ! 
O,   you  we   lef,  long-lingerin'    et  the 

door, 
Lovin'  you  best,  coz  we  loved  Her  the 

more, 
Thet   Death,  not  we,  had   conquered, 

w«  should  feel 


326 


THE  B I  GLOW  PAPERS. 


Ef  she  upon  our  memory  turned  her 

heel, 
An'  unregretful  throvved  us  all  away 
To  flaunt  it  in  a  Blind  Man's    Holi- 
day ! " 

My  frien's,  I  've  talked  nigh  on  to  long 

enough. 
I  hain't  no  call  to  bore  ye  coz  ye  're 

tough ; 


My  lungs  are  sound,  an'  our  own  v'ice 
delights 

Our  ears,  but  even  kebbige-heads  hez 
rights. 

It  's  the  las'  time  thet  I  shell  e'er  ad- 
dress ye, 

But  you  '11  soon  fin'  some  new  torment- 
or :  bless  ye  ! 

[Tumult  'cms  applause  and  cries  of"  Go  on  I  " 
"Don't  stopl  "J 


GLOSSARY. 


Act'lly,  actually. 
Air,  are. 
Airth,  earth. 
Airy,  area. 
Aree,  area. 
Arter,  after. 
Ax,  ask. 


B. 


Beller,  bellow. 
Bellowses,  lungs. 
Ben,  been. 
Bile,  boil. 

Bimeby,  by  and  by. 
Blurt  out,  to  speak  bluntly. 
Bust,  burst. 

Buster,  a  roistering  blade ;  used  also 
as  a  general  superlative. 


Caird,  carried. 

Cairn,  carrying-. 

Caleb,  a  turncoat. 

CaPlate,  calculate. 

Cass,  a  person  with  two  lives. 

Close,  clotlies. 

Cockerel,  a  young  cock. 

Cocktail,  a  kind  of  drink  ;  also,  an 
ornament  peculiar  to  soldiers. 

Convention,  a  place  where  people  are 
imposed  on  ;  a  juggler's  show. 

Coons,  a  cant  term,  for  a  now  defunct 
party ;  derived,  perhaps,  from  the 
fact  of  their  being  commonly  up  a 
tree. 

Cornwallis,  a  sort  of  muster  in  mas- 
querade ;  supposed  to  have  had  its 
origin  soon  after  the  Revolution,  and 
to   commemorate   the   surrender  of 


Lord  Cornwallis.  It  took  the  place 
of  the  old  Guy  Fawkes  procession. 

Crooked  stick,  a  perverse,  froward 
person. 

Cunnle,  a  colonel. 

Cus,  a  curse;  also,  a  pitiful  fellow. 


Darsn't,  used  indiscriminately,  either 
in  singular  or  plural  number,  for 
dare  not,  dares  not,  and  dared  not. 

Deacon  off,  to  give  the  cue  to  ;  derived 
from  a  custom,  once  universal,  but 
now  extinct,  in  our  New  England 
Congregational  churches.  An  im- 
portant part  of  the  office  of  deacon 
was  to  read  aloud  the  hymns  given 
out  by  the  minister,  one  line  at  a 
time,  the  congregation  singing  each 
line  as  soon  as  read. 

Demmercrat,  leadin',  one  hi  favor  of 
extending  slavery;  a  free-trade 
lecturer  maintained  in  the  custom- 
house. 

Desput,  desperate. 

Doos,  does. 

Doughface,  a  contented  lick-spittle  ;  a 
common  variety  of  Northern  politi- 
cian. 

Dror,  draw. 

Du,  do. 

Dunno,  dno,  do  not  or  does  not  know. 

Dut,  dirt. 

E. 

Eend,  end. 
Ef,  if 

Emptins,  yeast. 
Env'y,  envoy 

Everlasting,  an  intensive,  without  refer- 
ence to  duration 
Ev'y,  eiiery. 
Ez,  as. 


328 


THE  B1GLOW  PAPERS. 


Fence,  on  the ;  said  of  one  who  halts 
between  two  opinions;  a  trimmer. 

Fer,  for. 

Ferfle,  ferful,  /earful ;  also  an  inten- 
sive. 

Fin',  find. 

Fish-skin,  used  in  New  England  to 
clarify  coffee. 

Fix,  a  difficulty,  a  nonplus. 

F  oiler,  folly,  to  follow. 

Forrerd,  forward. 

Frum,  from. 

Fur,  far. 

Furder,  farther. 

Furrer,  furrow.  Metaphorically,  to 
draw  a  straight  furrow  is  to  live 
uprightly  or  decorously. 

Fust,  first. 

G. 

Gin,  gave. 

Git,  get. 

Gret,  great. 

Grit,  spirit,  energy,  pluck. 

Grout,  to  sulk. 

Grouty,  crabbed,  surly. 

Gum,  to  impose  on. 

Gump,  a  foolish  fellcnv,  a  dullard. 

Gut,  got. 

H. 

Hed,  had. 
Heern,  heard. 
Helium,  helm. 
Hendy,  handy. 
Het,  heated. 
Hev,  have. 
Hez,  has. 
Holl,  whole. 
Holt,  hold. 
Huf,  hoof. 
Hull,  whole. 
Hum,  home. 

Humbug,      General     Taylor's    anti- 
slavery. 
Hut,  hurt. 


Idno,  /  do  not  know. 
In'my,  enemy. 


Insines,  ensigns ;  used  to  designate 
both  the  officer  who  carries  the  stand- 
ard, and  the  standard  itself. 

Inter,  intu,  into. 


J edge,  Judge. 
Jest,  just. 
Jine,  join. 
Jint,  joint. 

Junk,  a  fragment  of  any  solid  sub- 
stance. 

K. 
Keer,  care. 
Kep',  kept. 

Killock,  a  small  anchor. 
Kin',  kin'  o',  kinder,  kind,  kind  of. 


Lawth,  loath. 

Less,  let's,  let  us. 

Let  daylight  into,  to  shoot. 

Let  on,  to  hint,  to  confess,  to  own. 

Lick,  to  beat,  to  overcome. 

Lights,  the  bowels. 

Lily-pads,  leaves  of  the  water-lily. 

Long-sweetening,  molasses. 


M. 

Mash,  marsh. 

Mean,  stingy,  ill-natured. 

Min',  mi?id. 

N. 

Nimepunce,  ninepence,  twelve  and  * 

half  cents. 
Nowers,  nowhere. 


O. 

Offen,  often. 

Ole,  old. 

Oilers,  olluz,  always. 

On,  of;  used  before  it  or  them,  or  af 

the  end  of  a  sentence,  as  on' I,  on' em, 

nut  ez  ever  I  heerd  on. 
On'y,  only. 
Ossifer,  officer,  (seldom  heard). 


GLOSSARY. 


329 


Peaked,  pointed. 

Peek,  to  peep. 

Pickerel,  the  pike,  a  fish. 

Pint,  point. 

Pocket  full  of  rocks,  plenty  0/  money. 

Pooty,  pretty. 

Pop'ler,  conceited,  popular. 

Pus,  purse. 

Put  out,  troubled,  vexed. 


Quarter,  a  quarter-dollar. 
Queen's-arm,  a  musket. 


Resh,  rush. 

Revelee,  tlie  riveille. 

Rile,  to  trouble. 

Riled,  angry ;  disturbed,  as  the  sedi- 
ment in  any  liquid. 

Riz,  risen. 

Row,  a  long  row  to  hoe,  a  difficult 
task. 

Rugged,  robust. 


Sarse,  abuse,  impertinence. 

Sartin,  certain. 

Saxon,  sacristan,  sexton. 

Scaliest,  -worst. 

Scringe,  cringe. 

Scrouge,  to  crowd. 

Sech,  such. 

Set  by,  valued. 

Shakes,  great,  of  considerable  conse- 
quence. 

Shappoes,  chapeaux,  cocked-hats. 

Sheer,  share. 

Shet,  shut. 

Shut,  shirt. 

Skeered,  scared. 

Skeeter,  mosquito. 

Skooting,  running,  or  moving  swiftly. 

Slarterin',  slaughtering. 

Slim,  contemptible. 

Snaked,  crawled  like  a  snake  ;  but  to 
snake  any  one  out  is  to  track  him  to 
his  hiding-place  ;  to  sntike  a  thing 
cut  is  to  snatch  it  out. 


Soffies,  sofas. 

Sogerin',  soldiering;  a  barbarous 
amusement  common  among  men  in 
the  savage  state. 

Som'ers,  somewhere. 

So'st,  so  as  that. 

Sot,  set,  obstinate,  resolute. 

Spiles,  spoils;  objects  of  political  am- 
bition. 

Spry,  active. 

Staddles,  stout  stakes  driven  into  the 
salt  marshes,  on  which  the  hay-ricks 
are  set,  and  thus  raised  out  of  the 
reach  of  high  tides. 

Streaked,  uncomfortable,  discomfited. 

Suckle,  circle 

Sutthin',  something. 

Suttin,  certain. 


T. 

Take  on,  to  sorrow. 

Talents,  talons. 

Taters,  potatoes. 

Tell,  till. 

Tetch,  touch. 

Tetch  tu,  to  be  able  ;  used  always  after 
a  negative  in  this  sense. 

Tollable,  tolerable. 

Toot,  used  derisively  for  playing  on 
any  wind  instrument. 

Thru,  through. 

Thundering,  a  euphemism  common  in 
New  England,  for  the  profane  Eng- 
lish expression  devilish.  Perhaps 
derived  from  the  belief,  common  for- 
merly, that  thunder  was  caused  by 
the  Prince  of  the  Air,  for  some  of 
whose  accomplishments  consult  Cot- 
ton Mather. 

Tu,  to,  too;  commonly  has  this  sound 
when  used  emphatically,  or  at  the 
end  of  a  sentence.  At  other  times  it 
has  the  sound  of  t  in  tough,  as, 
Ware  ye  goin'  tu  ?  Gain'  la  Bos- 
ton. 


U. 

Ugly,  ill-tempered,  intractable. 
Uncle  Sam,  United.  States  ;  thelargest 
boaster  of  liberty  and  owner  of  slaves. 


33° 


THE   B I  GLOW  PAPERS. 


Unrizzest,  applied  to  dough  or  bread  ; 
heavy,  most  unrisen,  or  most  inca- 
pable of  rising. 


V-spot,  a  five-dollar  bill. 
Vally,  value. 

W. 

Wake  snakes,  to  get  into  trouble. 

V/a\,well;  spoken  with  great  delibera- 
tion, and  sometimes  with  the  a  very 
much  flattened,  sometimes  (but  more 
seldom)  very  much  broadened. 

Wannut,  walnut,  (hickory.) 

Ware,  where. 

Ware,  were. 

Whopper,  an  uncommonly  large  lie; 
as,  that  General  Taylor  is  in  favor  of 
the  Wilmot  Proviso. 


Wig,  Whig;  a  party  now  dissolved. 
Wunt,  will  not. 
Wus,  worse. 
Wut,  what. 

Wuth,  worth ;   as,   Antislavery   per- 
fessious  'fore  'lection  aint  wuth  a 
Pungtown  copper. 
Wuz,  was,  sometimes  were. 


Y. 

Yaller,  yellow. 
Yeller,  yellow. 
Yellers,  a  disease  of  peach-trees. 


Zach,  Ole,  a  second  Washington,  an 
antislavery  slaveholder,  a  humane 
buyer  and  seller  of  men  and  women, 
a  Christian  hero  generally. 


INDEX. 


A.  wants  his  axe  ground,  282. 

A.  B.,  information  wanted  concerning, 
207 

Abra.  m  (Lincoln),  his  constitutional 
scruples,  282. 

Abuse,  an,  its  usefulness,  295. 

Adam,  eldest  son  of,  respected,  185  — 
his  fall,  301  —  how  if  he  had  bitten  a 
sweet  apple  ?  304. 

Ad.im,  Grandfather,  forged  will  of,  271. 

jEneas  goes  to  hell,  214. 

.^Eolus,  a  seller  of  money,  as  is  sup- 
posed by  some,  215. 

^lischylus,  a  saying  of,  199,  note. 

Alligator,  a  decent  one  conjectured  to 
be,  in  some  sort,  humane,  220. 

Allsmash,  the  eternal,  286. 

Alphonso  the  Sixth  of  Portugal,  tyran- 
nical act  of,  221. 

Ambrose,  Saint,  excellent  (but  ration- 
alistic) sentiment  of,  193. 

"  American  Citizen,"  new  compost  so 
called,  215. 

American  Eagle,  a  source  of  inspira- 
tion, 196  —  hitherto  wrongly  classed, 
199 —  long  bill  of,  ib. 

Americans  bebrothered,  265. 

Amos  cited,  193. 

Anakim,  that  they  formerly  existed, 
shown,  221. 

Angels  providentially  speak  French, 
189  —  conjectured  to  be  skilled  in  all 
tongues,  ib. 

Anglo-Saxondom,  its  idea,  what,  188. 

Anglo-Saxon  mask,  188. 

Anglo-Saxon  race,  187. 

Anglo-Saxon  verse,  by  whom  carried  to 
perfection,  186. 

Antiquaries,  Royal  Society  of  North- 
ern, 289. 

Antonius,  a  speech  of,  194  —  by  whom 
best  reported,  ib. 


Antony  of  Padua,  Saint,  happy  in  his 
hearers,  275. 

Apocalypse,  beast  in,  magnetic  to  theo- 
logians, 209. 

Apollo,  confessed  mortal  by  his  own 
oracle,  209. 

Apollyon,  his  tragedies  popular,  206. 

Appian,  an  Alexandrian,  not  equal  to 
Shakespeare  as  an  orator,  194. 

Applause,  popular,  the  summum  bo- 
num,  291. 

Ararat,  ignorance  of  foreign  tongues 
is  an,  200. 

Arcadian  background,  216. 

Ar  c'houskezik,  an  evil  spirit,  275. 

Ardennes,  Wild  Boar  of,  an  ancestor 
of  Rev.  Mr.  Wilbur,  254. 

Aristocracy,  British,  their  natural  sym- 
pathies, 280. 

Aristophanes,  192. 

Arms,  profession  of,  once  esteemed, 
especially  that  of  gentlemen,  185. 

Arnold,  195. 

Ashland,  216. 

Astor,  Jacob,  a  rich  man,  211. 

Astraa,    nineteenth   century   forsaken 

by>  2I5-  .  .      .      . 

Athenians,  ancient,   an   institution  of, 

Atherton,  Senator,  envies  the  loon,  202. 

"  Atlantic,"  editors  of.     See  Neptune. 

Atropos,  a  lady  skilful  with  the  scis- 
sors, 304. 

Austin,  Saint,  profane  wish  of,  19s, 
note  —  prayer  of,  254. 

Austrian  eagle  split,  295. 

Aye-Aye,  the,  an  African  animal, 
America  supposed  to  be  settled  by, 
190. 

B. 

B.,  a  Congressman,  vide  A . 
Babel,  probably  the  first  Congress,  200 
—  a  gabble-mill,  ib. 


332 


THE  B I  GLOW  PAPERS. 


Baby,  a  low-priced  one,  214. 

Bacon,  his  rebellion,  276. 

Bacon,  Lord,  quoted,  276. 

Bagowind,  Hon.  Mr.,  whether  to  be 
damned,  203. 

Balcom,  Elder  Joash  Q.,  2d,  founds  a 
Baptist  society  in  Jaalam,  A.  D.  1830, 
312. 

Baldwin  apples,  222. 

Baratarias,  real  or  imaginary,  which 
most  pleasant,  215. 

Barnum,  a  great  natural  curiosity  rec- 
ommended to,  198. 

Barrels,  an  inference  from  seeing,  222. 

Bartlett,  Mr.,  mistaken,  262. 

Baton  Rouge,  216  —  strange  peculiari- 
ties of  laborers  at,  ib. 

Baxter,  R.,  a  saying  of,  193. 

Bay,  Mattysqumscot,  220. 

Bay  State,  singular  effect  produced  on 
military  officers  by  leaving  it,  189. 

Beast,  in  Apocalypse,  a  loadstone  for 
whom,  209  —  tenth  horn  of,  applied 
to  recent  events,  303. 

Beaufort,  287. 

Beauregard  (real  name  Toutant),  266, 
282. 

Beaver,  brook,  316. 

Beelzebub,  his  rigadoon,  202. 

Behmen,  his  letters  not  letters,  207. 

Behn,  Mr.  Aphra,  quoted,  276. 

Bellers,  a  saloon-keeper,  218  —  inhu- 
manly refuses  credit  to  a  presidential 
candidate,  ib. 

Belmont.     See  Woods. 

Bentley,  his  heroic  method  with  Mil- 
ton, 290. 

Bible,  not  composed  for  use  of  colored 
persons,  278. 

Biglow,  Ezekiel,  his  letter  to  Hon.  J. 
T.  Buckingham,  183 — never  heard 
of  any  one  named  Mundishes,  ib.  — 
nearly  fourscore  years  old.  ib.  —  his 
aunt  Keziah,  a  notable  saying  of,  ib. 

Biglow,  Hosea,  Esquire,  excited  by 
composition,  183 — a  poem  by,  ib.,  204 
—  his  opinion  of  war,  184  —  wantedat 
home  by  Nancy,  184  —  recommends 
a  forcible  enlistment  of  warlike  edi- 
tors, ib. — would  not  wonder,  if  gene- 
rally agreed  with,  ib.  —  versifies  letter 
of  Mr.  Sawin,  185  —  a  letter  from, 
186,  201  —  his  opinion  of  Mr.  Sawin, 
186  —  does  not  deny  fun  at  Cornwal- 


lis,  ib.  note  —  his  idea  of  militia  glory, 
187,  note  —  a  pun  of,  188,  note — is 
uncertain  in  regard  to  people  of  Bos- 
ton, ib. — had  never  heard  of  Mr. 
John  P.  Robinson,  190  —  aliquid 
sufflamiitsindus,  ib. — his  poems  at- 
tributed to  a  Mr.  Lowell,  192  —  is 
unskilled  in  Latin,  ib.  —  his  poetry 
maligned  by  some,  ib.  — his  disinter- 
estedness, ib.  —  his  deep  share  in 
common-weal,  193  —  his  claim  to  the 
presidency,  ib.  —  his  mowing,  ib.  — 
resents  being  called  Whig,  ib.  —  op- 
posed to  tariff,  ib.  —  obstinate,  ib.  — 
infected  with  peculiar  notions,  ib.  — 
reports  a  speech,  194  —  emulates  his- 
torians of  antiquity,  ib.  —  his  charac- 
ter sketched  from  a  hostile  point  of 
view,  199  —  a  request  of  his  complied 
with,  203  —  appointed  at  a  public 
meeting  in  Jaalam,  207  —  confesses 
ignorance,  in  one  minute  particular, 
of  propriety,  ib.  —  his  opinion  of 
cocked  hats,  ib.  —  letter  to,  ib.  — 
called  "  Dear  Sir,"  by  a  general,  ib. 

—  probably  receives  same  compli- 
ment from  two  hundred  and  nine,  ib. 

—  picks  his  apples,  222  —  his  crop  of 
Baldwins  conjecturally  large,  ib. — 
his  labors  in  writing  autographs,  253 

—  visits  the  Judge  and  has  a  pleasant 
time,  262  —  born  in  Middlesex  Coun- 
ty, 267  —  his  favorite  walks,  ib.  —  his 
gifted  pen,  285  —  born  and  bred  in 
the  country,  297  —  feels  his  sap  start 
in  spring,  298  —  is  at  times  unsocial, 

299  —  the  school-house  where  he 
learned   his  a-b-c,  ib.  —  falls  asleep, 

300  —  his  ancestor  a  Cromwellian 
colonel,  ib.  —  finds  it  harder  to  make 
up  his  mind  as  he  grows  older,  301  — 
wishes  he  could  write  a  song  or  two, 
305  —  liable  to  moods,  315  —  loves 
nature  and  is  loved  in  return,  ib.  • — 
describes  some  favorite  haunts  of  his. 
315,  316  —  his  slain  kindred,  316  — 
his  speech  in  March  meeting,  317  — 
does  not  reckon  on  being  sent  to 
Congress,  318  —  has  no  eloquence, 
ib.  —  his  own  reporter,  319  —  ne-er 
abused  the  South,  320  —  advise  Un- 
cle Sam,  ib.  —  is  not  Boston-m?d, 
321  — bids  farewell,  326. 

Billings,  Dea.  Cephas,  186. 


INDEX. 


333 


Billy,  Extra,  deniagogiis,  309. 

Birch,  virtue  of,  in  instilling  certain  of 
the  dead  languages,  214. 

Bird  of  our  country  sings  hosanna,  187. 

Bjarna  Grimolfsson  invents  smoking, 
290. 

Blind,  to  go  it,  213. 

Blitz  pulls  ribbons  from  his  mouth,  187. 

Bluenose  potatoes,  smell  of,  eagerly 
desired,  187. 

Bobolink,  the,  298. 

Bobtail  obtains  a  cardinal's  hat,  190. 

Boggs,  a  Norman  name,  279. 

Bogus  Four-Corners  Weekly  Meridian, 
291. 

Bolles,  Mr.  Secondary,  author  of  prize 
peace  essay,  1S7  —  presents  sword  to 
Lieutenant  Colonel,  ib. — a  fluent 
orator,  ib. — found  to  be  in  error, 
187. 

Bonaparte,  N.,  a  usurper,  209. 

Bonds,  Confederate,  their  specie  basis 
cutlery,  259  —  when  payable,  (atten- 
tion, British  stockholders  !)  286. 

Boot-trees,  productive,  where,  214. 

Boston,  people  of,  supposed  educated, 
188,  note  —  has  a  good  opinion  of 
itself,  267,  268. 

Bowers,  Mr.  Arphaxad,  an  ingenious 
photographic  artist,  290.      • 

Brahmins,  navel-contemplating,  206. 

Brains,  poor  substitute  for,  268. 

Bread-trees,  214. 

Bream,  their  only  business,  263. 

Brigadier-Generals  in  militia,  devotion 
of,  194. 

Brigadiers,  nursing  ones,  tendency  in 
to  literary  composition,  256. 

Brigitta,  viridis,  308. 

Britannia,  her  trident,  273. 

Brotherhood,   subsides   after  election, 

294-  .  . 

Brown,    Mr.,   engages  in   an   unequal 

contest,  203. 
Browne,  Sir  T.,  a  pious  and  wise  senti- 
ment of,  cited  and  commended,  186. 
Brutus  Four-Corners,  254. 
Buchanan,  a  wise  and  honest  man,  280. 
Buckingham,  Hon.  J.  T.,  editor  of  the 

Boston  Courier,  letters  to,  183,  185, 

1Q2,  201  —  not  afraid,  186. 
Buffalo,    a   plan  hatched  there,    219  — 

plaster,  a  prophecy  in  regard  to,  ib. 
Buffaloes,  herd   of,  probable   influence 

of  tracts  upon,  305. 


Bull,  John,  prophetic  allusion  to  by 
Horace,  264  —  his  "Run,"  267  — 
his  mortgage,  271  —  unfortunate  dip 
of,  286  —  wool  pulled  over  his  eyes, 
287. 

Buncombe,  in  the  other  world  sup- 
posed, 195  —  mutual  privilege  in, 
282. 

Bung,  the  eternal,  thought  to  be  loose, 
184. 

Bungtown  Fencibles,  dinner  of,  190. 

Burke,  Mr.,  his  age  of  chivalry  sur- 
passed, 279. 

Burleigh,  Lord,  quoted  for  something 
said  in  Latin  long  before,  276- 

Burns,  Robert,  a  Scottish  poet,  262. 

Bushy  Brook,  277. 

Butler,  Bishop,  284. 

Butter  in  Irish  bogs,  214. 


C,  General,  commended  for  parts,  191 

—  for  ubiquity,  ib.  —  for  consistency, 
ib. — for  fidelity,  ib. — is  in  favor  of 
war,  ib.  —  his  curious  valuation  of 
principle,  ib. 

Cabbage-heads,  the,  always  in  majority, 

3i9- 
Cabinet,    English,   makes   a  blunder, 

265. 
Caesar,  tribute  to,  205  —  his  veni,  vidu 

vici,    censured    for  undue   prolixity, 

210. 
Cainites,  sect  of,  supposed  still  extant, 

l8S- 
Caleb,  a  monopoly  of  his  denied,  187 

—  curious  notions  of,  as  to  meaning 
of  "shelter,"  188  — his  definition  of 
Anglo-Saxon,  ib.  —charges  Mexi- 
cans^not  with  bayonets  but)  with  im- 
proprieties, ib. 

Calhoun,  Hon.  J.  C,  his  cow-bell  cur- 
few, light  of  the  nineteenth  century 
to  be  extinguished  at  sound  of,  200  — 
cannot  let  go  apron-string  of  the  Past, 
201— his  unsuccessful  tilt  at  Spirit 
of  the  Age,  ib.  —  the  Sir  Kay  of  mod- 
em chivalry,  ib.  —  his  anchor  made 
of  a  crooked  pin,  ib.  —  mentioned, 
201  -  203. 

Cahboosris,  career,  310. 

Cambridge  Platform,  use  discovered 
for,  190. 


334 


THE   B I  GLOW  PAPERS. 


Canaan  in  quarterly  instalments,  291. 

Canary  Islands,  214. 

Candidate,  presidential,  letter  from,  207 

—  smells  a  rat,  ib.  — against  a  bank, 
208  —  takes  a  revolving  position,  ib. 

—  opinion  of  pledges,  ib.  —  is  a  peri- 
wig, ib. — fronts  south  by  north,  ib. 

—  qualifications  of,  lessening,  210  — 
wooden  leg  (and  head)  useful  to, 
213. 

Cape  Cod  clergymen,  what,  189  —  Sab- 
bath-breakers, perhaps,  reproved  by, 
ib. 

Captains,  choice  of,  important,  320. 

Carolina,  foolish  act  of,  320. 

Caroline,  case  of,  264. 

Carpini,  Father  John  de  Piano,  among 
the  Tartars,  221. 

Cartier,  Jacques,  commendable  zeal  of, 
221. 

Cass,  General,  202  —  clearness  of  his 
merit,  ib.  —  limited  popularity  at 
"  Bellers's,"  218. 

Castles,  Spanish,  comfortable  accom- 
modations in,  215. 

Cato,  letters  of,  so  called,  suspended 
naso  adunco,  207. 

C.  D.,  friends  of,  can  hear  of  him,  207. 

Century,  nineteenth,  280. 

Chalk  egg,  we  are  proud  of  incubation 
of,  207. 

Chamberlayne,  Doctor,  consolatory 
citation  from,  276. 

Chance,  an  apothegm  concerning,  256 

—  is  impatient,  302. 

Chaplain,  a  one-horse,  stern-wheeled 
variety  of,  258. 

Chappelow  on  Job,  a  copy  of,  lost, 
204. 

Charles  I.,  accident  to  his  neck,  302. 

Charles  1 1 . ,  his  restoration,  how  brought 
about,  302.  , 

Cherubusco,  news  of,  its  effects  on  Eng- 
lish royalty,  199. 

Chesterfield  no  letter-writer,  207. 

Chief  Magistrate,  dancing  esteemed 
sinful  by,  189. 

Children  naturally  speak  Hebrew,  186. 

China-tree,  214. 

Chinese,  whether  they  invented  gun- 
powder before  the  Christian  era  not 
considered,  190. 

Choate  hired,  218. 

Christ  shuffled  into  Apocrypha,  190  — 
conjectured  to  disapprove  of  slaugh- 


ter and  pillage,  iqi — condemns  a 
certain  piece  of  barbarism,  203. 

Christianity,  profession  of,  plebeian, 
whether,  18,5. 

Christian  soldiers,  perhaps  inconsist- 
ent, whether,  194. 

Cicero,  319,  — an  opinion  of,  disputed, 
209. 

Cilley,  Ensign,  author  of  nefarious  sen- 
timent, 190. 

Cimex  lectularius,  1S8. 

Cincinnati,  old,  law  and  order  party  of, 

*95- 

Cmcinnatus,  a  stock  character  in  mod- 
ern comedy,  216. 

Civilization,  progress  of,  an  alias,  204 

—  rides  upon  a  powder-cart,  208. 
Clergymen,  their  ill  husbandry,  203  — 

their  place  in  processions,  216 — some, 
cruelly  banished  for  the  soundness  of 
their  lungs,  221. 

Clotho,  a  Grecian  lady,  304. 

Cocked-hat,  advantages  of  being 
knocked  into,  207. 

College  of  Cardinals,  a  strange  one, 
190. 

Colman,  Dr.  Benjamin,  anecdote  of, 
194. 

Colored  folks,  curious  national  diver- 
sion of  kicking,  188. 

Colquitt,  a  remark  of,  202  —  acquainted 
with  some  principles  of  aerostation, 
ib. 

Columbia,  District  of,  its  peculiar  cli- 
matic effects,  196  —  not  certain  that 
Martin  is  for  abolishing  it,  219. 

Columbiads,  the  true  fifteen-inch  ones, 
294. 

Columbus,  a  Paul  Pry  of  genius,  206 

—  will  perhaps  be  remembered,  289 

—  thought  by  some  to  have  discov- 
ered America,  322. 

Columby,  217. 

Complete  Letter-Writer,   fatal  gift  of, 

209. 
Compostella,  Saint  James  of,  seen,  189. 
Compromise    system,  the,    illustrated, 

293.-.     . 

Conciliation,  its  meaning,  305. 

Congress,  singular  consequence  of  get- 
ting into,  196  —  a  stumbling-block, 
281. 

Congressional  debates  found  instruc- 
tive, 200. 

Constituents,  useful  for  what,  19^. 


INDEX. 


33S 


Constitution  trampled  on,  201 — to 
stand  upon,  what,  208. 

Convention,  what,  196. 

Convention,  Springfield,  196. 

Coon,  old,  pleasure  in  skinning,  202. 

Co-operation  defined,  280. 

Coppers,  caste  in  picking  up  of,  212. 

Copres,  a  monk,  his  excellent  method 
of  arguing,  200. 

Corduroy-road,  a  novel  one,  256. 

Corner-stone,  patent  safety,  281. 

Cornwallis,  a,  186  —  acknowledged  en- 
tertaining, ib.  note. 

Cotton  loan,  its  imaginary  nature,  258. 

Cotton  Mather,  summoned  as  witness, 
189. 

Country,  our,  its  boundaries  more  ex- 
actly defined,  192  —  right  or  wrong, 
nonsense  about  exposed,  ib.  —  law- 
yers, sent  providentially,  ib.  —  Earth's 
biggest,  gets  a  soul,  307. 

Courier,  The  Boston,  an  unsafe  print, 
199. 

Court,  General,  farmers  sometimes  at- 
tain seats  in,  216. 

Court,  Supreme,  282. 

Courts  of  law,  English,  their  ortho- 
doxy, 291. 

Cousins,  British,  our  ci-devant,  265. 

Cowper,  W.,  his  letters  commended, 
207. 

Credit  defined,  287. 

Creditors  all  on  Lincoln's  side,  281. 

Creed,  a  safe  kind  of,  213. 

Crockett,  a  good  rule  of,  259. 

Cruden,  Alexander,  his  Concordance, 
254- 

Crusade,  first  American,  189. 

Cuneiform  script  recommended,  210. 

Curiosity  distinguishes  man  from 
brutes,  206. 

Currency,  Ethiopian,  inconveniences 
of,  259. 

Cynthia,  her  hide  as  a  means  of  con- 
version, 261. 

D. 

Daedalus  first  taught  men  to  sit  on 
fences,  277. 

Daniel  in  the  lion's  den,  257. 

Darkies  dread  freedom,  281. 

Davis,  Captain  Isaac,  finds  out  some- 
thing to  his  advantage,  267. 


Davis,  Jefferson,  (a  new  species  of 
martyr,)  has  the  latest  ideas  on  all 
subjects,  259  —  superior  in  financier- 
ing to  patriarch  Jacob,  ib.  —  is  some, 
281  — carries  Constitution  in  his  hat, 
ib.  —  knows  how  to  deal  with  his 
Congress,  ib.  — astonished  at  his  own 
piety,  286 —  packed  up  for  Nashville, 
287 — tempted  to  believe  his  own 
lies,  287  —  his  snake  egg,  293  —  the 
blood  on  his  hands,  316. 
Davis,  Mr.,  of  Mississippi,  a  remark  of 

his,  202. 
Day    and    Martin,    proverbially    "on 

hand,"  183. 
Death,  rings  down  curtain,  206. 
De   Bow,   (a   famous  political   econo- 
mist,) 279. 
Delphi,  oracle  of,  surpassed,   199,  note 

—  alluded  to,  209. 
Democracy,  false  notion  of,   282  —  its 

privileges,  306. 
Demosthenes,  319. 
Destiny,  her  account,  198. 
Devil,  the,  unskilled  in  certain  Indian 
tongues,    189  — letters  to  and  from, 
207. 
Dey  of  Tripoli,  200. 
Didymus,     a    somewhat     voluminous 

grammarian,  209. 
Dighton  rock  character  might  be  use- 
fully employed  in  some  emergencies, 
209. 
Dimitry  Bmisgins,  fresh  supply  of,  206. 
Diogenes,  his  zeal  for  propagating  cer- 
tain variety  of  olive,  214. 
Dioscuri,  imps  of  the  pit,  189. 
District-Attorney,    contemptible    con- 
duct of  one,  200. 
Ditchwater  on  brain,   a  too  common 

ailing,  200. 
Dixie,  the  land  of,  281. 
Doctor,   the,   a   proverbial   saying  of, 

189. 
Doe,  Hon.  Preserved,  speech  of,  291  - 

296. 
Doughface,  yeast-proof,  205. 
Downing  Street,  264. 
Drayton,    a   martyr,    200  —  north  star, 

culpable  for  aiding,  whether,  203. 
Dreams,  something  about,  300. 
Dwight,  President,  a  hymn  unjustly  at- 
tributed to,  303. 
D.  Y.,  letter  of,  207. 


336 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


E. 

Eagle,  national,  the  late,  his  estate  ad- 
ministered upon,  260. 

Earth,  Dame,  a  peep  at  her  housekeep- 
ing, 201. 

Eating  words,  habit  of,  convenient  in 
time  of  famine,  198. 

Eavesdroppers,  206. 

Echetlsus,  1S9. 

Editor,  his  position,  203  —  command- 
ing pulpit  of,  204  —  large  congrega- 
tion of,  ib.  —  name  derived  from 
what,  ib.  —  fondness  for  mutton,  ib. 

—  a  pious  one,  his  creed,  ib.  —  a 
showman,  205  — in  danger  of  sudden 
arrest,  without  bail,  206. 

Editors,  certain  ones  who  crow  like 
cockerels,  184. 

Edwards,  Jonathan,  313. 

Eggs,  bad,  the  worst  sort  of,  295,  296. 

Egyptian  darkness,  phial  of,  use  for, 
209. 

Eldorado,  Mr.  Sawin  sets  sail  for,  214. 

Elizabeth,  Queen,  mistake  of  her  am- 
bassador, 195. 

Emerson,  262. 

Emilius,  Pauhis,  266. 

Empedocles,  206. 

Employment,  regular,  a  good  thing, 
212. 

Enfield's  Speaker,  abuse  of,  29s. 

England,  late  Mother-Country,  her  want 
of  tact,  263  —  merits  as  a  lecturer,  ib. 

—  her  real  greatness  not  to  be  for- 
gotten, 265  —  not  contented  (unwise- 
ly) with  her  own  stock   of  fools,  268 

—  natural  maker  of  international 
law,  ib.  —  her  theory  thereof,  ib.  — 
makes  a  particularly  disagreeable 
kind  of  sarse,  269  —  somewhat  given 
to  bullying,  ib.  —  has  respectable  re- 
lations, ib.  —  ought  to  be  Columbia's 
friend,  270  —  anxious  to  buy  an  ele- 
phant, 281. 

Epaulets,  perhaps  no  badge  of  saint- 
ship,  igi. 

Epimenides,  the  Cretan  Rip  Van  Win- 
kle, 275. 

Episcopius,  his  marvellous  oratory,  221. 

Eric,  king  of  Sweden,  his  cap,  215. 

Ericsson,  his  caloric  engine,  261. 

Eriksson,  Thorwald,  slain  by  natives, 
291. 


Essence-pedlers,  283. 

Ethiopian,  the,  his  first  need,  284. 

Evangelists,  iron  ones,  190. 

Eyelids,  a  divine  shield  against  au- 
thors, 200. 

Ezekiel,  text  taken  from,  203. 

Ezekiel  would  make  a  poor  figure  at  a 
caucus,  296. 


F. 


Faber,  Johannes,  314. 

Factory-girls,  expected  rebellion  of,  202. 

Facts,  their  unamiability,  288  —  com- 
pared to  an  old-fashioned  stage- 
coach, 292. 

Falsiajfii,  legio,  390. 

Family-trees,  fruit  of  jejune,  214  —  a 
primitive  forest  of,  293. 

Faneuil  Hall,  a  place  where  persons 
tap  themselves  for  a  species  of  hydro- 
cephalus, 200  —  a  bill  of  fare  menda- 
ciously advertised  in,  214. 

Father  of  country,  his  shoes,  216. 

Female  Papists,  cut  off  in  midst  of  idol- 
atry, 215. 

Fenianontm,  rixtz,  308. 

Fergusson,  his  "  Mutual  Complaint,'* 
&c,  262. 

F.  F.,  singular  power  of  their  looks, 
281. 

Fire,  we  all  like  to  play  with  it,  201. 

Fish,  emblematic,  but  disregarded, 
where,  200. 

Fitz,  Miss  Parthenia  Almira,  a  sbere- 
siarch,  312. 

Flam,  President,  untrustworthy,  196. 

Flirt,  Mrs.,  276. 

Flirtilla,  elegy  on  death  of,  313. 

Floyd,  a  taking  character,  286. 

Floydus,  furcifer,  309. 

Fly-leaves,  providential  increase  of, 
200. 

Fool,  a  cursed,  his  inalienable  rights, 
306. 

Foote,  Mr.,  his  taste  for  field-sports, 
201. 

Fourier,  a  squinting  toward,  199. 

Fourth  of  July  ought  to  know  its  place 

294-  ,    ... 

Fourth  of  Julys,  boiling,  195. 
France,  a  strange  dance  begun  in,  202 

—  about  to  put  her  foot  in  it,  281. 
Friar,  John,  265. 


INDEX- 


317 


Fuller,  Dr.  Thomas,  a  wise  saying  of, 

191. 
Funnel,  Old,  hurraing  in,  187. 


Gabriel,  his  last  trump,  its  pressing  na- 
ture, 292. 

Gardiner,  Lieutenant  Lion,  266. 

Gawain,  Sir,  his  amusements,  201. 

Gay,  S.  H.,  Esquire,  editor  of  National 
Antislavery  Standard,  letter  to,  206. 

Geese,  how  infallibly  to  make  swans 
of,  268. 

Gentleman,  high-toned  Southern,  scien- 
tifically classed,  277. 

Getting  up  early,  184,  188. 

Ghosts,  some,  presumed  fidgety,  (but 
see  Stilling's  Pneumatology,)  207. 

Giants  formerly  stupid,  201. 

Gideon,  his  sword  needed,  272. 

Gift  of  tongues,  distressing  case  of,  200. 

Gilbert,  Sir  Humphrey,  290. 

Globe  Theatre,  cheap  season-ticket  to, 
206. 

Glory,  a  perquisite  of  officers,  212- — 
her  account  with  B.  Sawin,  Esq.,  214. 

Goatsnose,  the  celebrated,  interview 
with,  209. 

God,  the  only  honest  dealer,  274. 

Goings,  Mehetable,  unfounded  claim 
of,  disproved,  263. 

Gomara  has  a  vision,  189  —  his  rela- 
tionship to  the  Scarlet  Woman,  ib. 

Governor,  our  excellent,  254. 

Grandfather,  Mr.  Biglow's,  safe  advice 
of,  267. 

Grandfathers,  the,  knew  something, 
272. 

Grand  jurors,  Southern,  their  way  of 
finding  a  true  bill,  258. 

Granlus,  Dux,  309. 

Gravestones,  the  evidence  of  Dissent- 
ing ones  held  doubtful,  291. 

Gray's  letters  are  letters,  207. 

Great  horn  spoon,  sworn  by,  201. 

Greeks,  ancient,  whether  they  ques- 
tioned candidates,  209. 

Green  Man,  sign  of,  193. 

H. 

Habeas  corpus,  new  mode  of  suspend- 
ing it,  286. 

22 


Hail  Columbia,  raised,  257. 

Ham,  sandwich,  an  orthodox  (but  pe- 
culiar) one,  203  —  his  seed,  278  — 
their  privilege  in  the  Bible,  ib. — im- 
moral justification  of,  ib. 

Hamlets,  machine  for  making,  210. 

Hammon,  199,  note,  209. 

Hampton  Roads,  disaster  in,  284. 

Hannegan,  Mr.,  something  said  by, 
202. 

Harrison,  General,  how  preserved,  208. 

Hat,  a  leaky  one,  258. 

Hat-trees,  in  full  bearing,  214. 

Hawkins,  his  whetstone,  261. 

Hawkins,  Sir  John,  stout,  something 
he  saw,  214. 

Hawthorne,  262. 

Hay-rick,  electrical  experiments  with, 
306. 

Headlong,  General,  266. 

Hell,  the  opinion  of  some  concerning, 
300  —  breaks  loose,  305. 

Henry  the  Fourth  of  England,  a  Par- 
liament of,  how  named,  194,  195. 

Hens,  self-respect  attributed  to,  256. 

Herb,  the  Circean,  291. 

Herbert,  George,  next  to  David,  275. 

Hercules,  his  second  labor  probably 
what,  221. 

Hermon,  fourth-proof  dew  of,  278. 

Herodotus,  story  from,  186 

Hesperides,  an  inference  from,  214. 

Hessians,  native  American  soldiers, 
2S2. 

Hickory,  Old,  his  method,  305. 

Higgses,  their  natural  aristocracy  of 
feeling,  279. 

Hitchcock,  the  Rev.  Jeduthun,  col- 
league of  Mr.  Wilbur,  254 — letter 
from,  containing  notices  of  Mr.  Wil- 
bur, 302  —  ditto,  enclosing  macaronic 
verses,  307 —  teacher  of  high-school, 

3'4- 

Hitchcock,  Doctor,  290. 

Hogs,  their  dreams,  256. 

Hold»n,  Mr.  Shearjashub,  Preceptor 
of  Jaalam  Academy,  209 —  his  knowl- 
edge of  Greek  limited,  ib.  —  a  heresy 
of  his,  ib.  —  leaves  a  fund  to  propa- 
gate it,  209. 

Holiday,  blind  man's,  326. 

Hollis,  Ezra,  goes  to  a  Cornwallis,  186. 

Hollow,  why  men  providentially  so  con- 
structed, 195. 


33« 


THE   B I  GLOW  PAPERS. 


Holmes,  Dr.,  author  of  "Annals  of 

America,"  254. 
Homer,  a  phrase  of,  cited,  204. 
Homer,  eldest  son  of  Mr.  Wilbur,  313. 
Homers,   democratic  ones,  plums  left 

for,  197. 
Hotels,  big  ones,  humbugs,  272. 
House,  a  strange  one  described,  256. 
Howell,  James,  Esq  ,  story  told  by,  195 

—  letters  of,  commended,  207. 
Huldah,  her  bonnet,  301. 

Human  rights  out  of  order  on  the  floor 

of  Congress,  201. 
Humbug,  ascription   of  praise  to,  205 

—  generally  believed  in,  ib. 
Husbandry,  instance  of  bad,  191. 


I. 


Icarius,  Penelope's  father,  192. 

Icelander,  a  certain  uncertain,  290. 

Idea,  the  Southern,  its  natural  foes,  287 
—  the  true  American,  321. 

Ideas,  friction  ones  unsafe,  295. 

Idyl,  defined,  262. 

Indecision,  mole-blind,  320. 

Infants,  prattlings  of,  curious  observa- 
tion concerning,  186. 

Information  wanted  (universally,  but 
especially  at  page)  207. 

Ishmael,  young,  272. 


Jaalam,  unjustly  neglected  by  great 
events,  291. 

Jaalam  Centre,  Anglo-Saxons  unjustly 
suspected  by  the  young  ladies  there, 
188  —  "  Independent  Blunderbuss," 
strange  conduct  of  editor  of,  203  — 
public  meeting  at,  207  —  meeting- 
house ornamented  with  imaginary 
clock,  215. 

Jaalam,  East  Parish  of,  254. 

Jaalam  Point,  light-house  on,  charge 
of,  prospectively  offered  to  Mr.  H. 
Biglow,  208. 

Jacobus,  rex,  309. 

Jakes,  Captain,  320— reproved  for 
avarice,  ib. 

Jamaica,  320. 


James  the  Fourth,  of  Scots,  experi- 
ment by,  186. 

Jarnagin,  Mr.,  his  opinion  of  the  com- 
pleteness of  Northern  education, 
202. 

Jefferson,  Thomas,  well-meaning,  but 
injudicious,  294. 

Jerusha,  ex-Mrs.  Sawin,  260. 

Jeremiah,  hardly  the  best  guide  in  mod- 
ern politics,  296. 

Jerome,  Saint,  his  list  of  sacred  writ- 
ers, 207. 

Job,  Book  of,  185  —  Chappelow  on, 
204. 

Johnson,  Andrew,  as  he  used  to  be, 
294  —  as  he  is  :  see  A  mold,  Bene- 
dict. 

Johnson,  Mr.,  communicates  some  in- 
telligence, 202. 

Jonah,  the  inevitable  destiny  of,  203 
—  probably  studied  internal  econ- 
omy of  the  cetacea,  207  —  his  gourd, 
278  —  his  unanimity  in  the  whale, 
2S0. 

Jonathan  to  John,  273. 

Jortin,  Dr.,  cited,  194,  199,  note. 

Journals,  British,  theirbrutal  tone,  263. 

Juanito,  289. 

Judea,  everything  not  known  there, 
191  —  not  identical  with  A.  D.,  301. 

Judge,  the,  his  garden,  263  —  his  hat 
covers  many  things,  ib. 

Juvenal,  a  saying  of,  198,  note. 

K. 

Kay,  Sir,  the,  of  modern  chivalry,  who, 

201. 
Key,  brazen  one,  200. 
Keiiah,  Aunt,  profound  observation  of, 

,83. 
Kinderhook,  216. 

Kingdom  Come,  march  to,  easy,  2it. 
Kbnigsmark,  Count,  185. 


Lablache  surpassed,  284. 

Lacedaemonians  banish  a  great  talker, 
200. 

Lamb,  Charles,  his  epistolary  excel- 
lence, 207. 


INDEX. 


339 


Latimer,  Bishop, episcopizes  Satan,  185. 
Latin  tongue,  curious  information  con- 
cerning, 192. 
Launcelot,  Sir,  a  trusser  of  giants  for- 
merly, perhaps  would  find  less  sport 
therein  now,  201. 
Laura,  exploited,  313. 
Learning,  three-story,  299. 
Letcher,  de  la  vieille  roche,  279. 
[*etcherits,  nebula,  309. 

Letters  classed,  207  —  their  shape,  207 
—  of  candidates,  20S  —  often  fatal, 
209. 

Lettres  Cabalistiques,  quoted,  264. 

Lewis  Philip,  a  scourger  of  young  na- 
tive Americans,  199  —  commiserated 
(though  not  deserving  it),  ib.  note. 

Lexington,  267. 

Liberator,  a  newspaper,  condemned  by 
implication,  193. 

Liberty,  unwholesome  for  men  of  cer- 
tain complexions,  204. 

Licking,  when  constitutional,  282. 

Lignum  vita;,  a  gift  of  this  valuable 
wood  proposed,  189. 

Lincoln,  too  shrewd  to  hang  Mason 
and  Slidell,  288. 

Literature,  Southern,  its  abundance, 
280. 

Little  Big  Boosy  River,  260. 

Longinus  recommends  swearing,  186 
note  (Fuseli  did  same  thing). 

Long  sweetening  recommended,  211. 

Lord,  inexpensive  way  of  lending  to, 
258. 

Lords,  Southern,  prove  pur  sang-  by 
ablution,  279. 

Lost  arts,  one  sorrowfully  added  to  list 
of,  221. 

Louis  the  Eleventh  of  France,  some 
odd  trees  of  his,  214. 

Lowell,  Mr.  J.  R.,  unaccountable  si- 
lence of,  192. 

Luther,  Martin,  his  first  appearance  as 
Europa,  188. 

Lyaus,  310. 

Lyttelton,  Lord,  his  letters  an  imposi- 
tion, 207. 


M. 

Macrobii,  their  diplomacy,  209. 
Magoffin,  a  name  naturally  noble,  279. 


Mahomet,  got  nearer  Sinai  than  som«, 

204. 
Mahound,  his  filthy  gobbets,  189. 
Mandeville,  Sir  John,  quoted,  264. 
Maugum,  Mr.,  speaks  to  the  point,  201. 
Manichaean,  excellently  confuted,  200. 
Man-trees,  grew  where,  214. 
Maori  chieftains,  264. 
Mapes,   Walter,    quoted,    265— para- 
phrased, ib. 
Mares'-nests,   finders    of,   benevolent; 

206. 
Marius,  quoted,  276. 
Marshfield,  216,  218. 
Martin,    Mr.  Sawin   used  to  vote  for 

him,  219. 
Mason  and  Dixon's  line,  slaves  north 

of,  201. 
Mason  an  F.  F.  V.,  288. 
Mason   and    Slidell,    how  they   might 

have  been  made  at  once  useful  and 

ornamental,  288. 
Mass,  the,  its  duty  defined,  201. 
Massachusetts  on     her   knees,    185  — 

something  mentioned  in   connection 

with,  worthy  the  attention  of  tailors, 

196  —  citizen  of,   baked,   boiled,  and 

roasted  (nefandum .'),  212. 
Masses,  the,  used  as  butter  by  some, 

197. 
Maury,  an  intellectual  giant,  twin  birth 

with  Simms  (which  see),  280. 
Mayday  a  humbug,  297. 
M.  C,  an  invertebrate  animal,  198. 
Me,  Mister,  a  queer  creature,  299. 
Mechanics'  Fair,  reflections  suggested 

at,  210. 
Medium,  ardetitispirituale,  308. 
Mediums,  spiritual,  dreadful  liars,  301. 
Memminger,  old,  259 
Mentor,  letters  of,  dreary,  207. 
Mephistopheles  at  a  nonplus,  203. 
Mexican   blood,    its   effect    in    raising 

price  of  cloth,  215. 
Mexican  polka,  189. 
Mexicans  charged  with  various  breach- 
es of  etiquette,   188  —  kind   feelings 
beaten  into  them,  205. 
Mexico,  no  glory  in  overcoming,  196. 
Middleton,  Thomas,  quoted,  276. 
Military   glory   spoken   disrespectfully 
of,    187,    note — militia   treated    stLU 
worse,  ib. 
Milk-trees,  growing  still,  214. 


34° 


THE   B I  GLOW  PAPERS- 


Mill,  Stuart,  his  low  ideas,  287. 
Millenniums,  apt  to  miscarry,  306. 
Millspring,  287. 
Mills  for   manufacturing  gabble,    how 

driven,  200. 
Mills,  Josiah's,  299. 
Milton,  an  unconscious   plagiary,  195, 

note —  a  Latin  verse  of,  cited,  204  — 

an  English  poet,  290  — his  "  Hymn 

of  the  Nativity,"  303. 
Missionaries,   uset  1  to  alligators,  256 

—  culinary  liabilities  of,  278. 
Missions,  a  profitable  kind  of,  204. 
Monarch,  a  pagan,  probably  not  favored 

in  philosophical  experiments,  186. 
.Money-trees,  desirable,  214  — that  they 
once  existed  shown  to  be  variously 
probable,  ib. 

Montaigne,  a  communicative  old  Gas- 
con, 206. 

Monterey,  battle  of,  its  singular  chro- 
matic effect  on  a  species  of  two- 
headed  eagle,  199. 

Montezuma,  licked,  257. 

Montaigne,  314. 

Moody,  Seth,  his  remarkable  gun,  260 

—  his  brother  Asaph,  ib. 

Moquis  Indians,  praiseworthy  custom 

of,  290. 
Moses,  held  up  vainly  as  an  example, 

204  —  construed  by  Joe  Smith,  ib.  — 

(not,  A.  J.  Moses)  prudent  way   of 

following,  291. 
Muse  invoked,  308. 
Myths,  how  to  interpret  readily,  209. 


N. 


Naboths,  Popish  ones,  how  distin- 
guished, 189. 

Nana  Sahib,  264. 

Nancy,  presumably  Mrs.  Biglow,  266. 

Napoleon  III.,  his  new  chairs,  285. 

Nation,  rights  of,  proportionate  to  size, 
188  —  young,  its  first  needs,  286. 

National  pudding,  its  effect  on  the  or- 
gans of  speech,  a  curious  physiologi- 
cal fact,  190. 

Negroes,  their  double  usefulness,  259 
—  getting  too  current.  286. 

Nephelim,  not  yet  extinct,  221. 

New  England  overpoweringly  honored, 
198  —  wants  no  more  speakers,  ib.  — 


done  brown  by  whom,  ib.  —  her  expe- 
rience in  beans  beyond  Cicero's,  209. 

Newspaper,  the,  wonderful,  205  —  a 
strolling  theatre,  ib.  —  thoughts  sug- 
gested by  tearing  wrapper  of,  206  — 
a  vacant  sheet,  ib.  —  a  sheet  in  which 
a  vision  was  let  down,  ib.  — wrapper 
to  a  bar  of  soap,  ib.  —  a  cheap  im- 
promptu platter,  ib. 

New  World,  apostrophe  to,  272. 

New  York,  letters  from,  commended, 
207. 

Next  life,  what,  204. 

Nicotiana  Tabacum,  a  weed,  290. 

Niggers,  184  —  area  of  abusing  extend- 
ed, 196  —  Mr.  Sawin's  opinions  of, 
219. 

Ninepence  a  day  low  for  murder,  186. 

No,  a  monosyllable,  190 —  hard  to  ut- 
ter, ib. 

Noah  enclosed  letter  in  bottle,  proba- 
bly, 207. 

Noblemen,  Nature's,  280. 

Nornas,  Lapland,  what,  215. 

North,  the,  has  no  business,  202  —  bris- 
tling, crowded  off  roost,  208  —  its 
mind  naturally  unprincipled,  295. 

North  Bend,  geese  inhumanly  treated 
at,  209  —  mentioned,  216. 

North  star,  a  proposition  to  indict, 
203. 

Northern  Dagon,  260. 

Northmen,  gens  incfytissimti,  289. 

Notre  Dame  de  la  Haine,  277. 

Nowhere,  march  to,  300. 

Now,  its  merits,  299. 


O'Brien,  Smith,  264. 

Off  ox,  208. 

Officers,  miraculous  transformation  id 

character    of,      189  —  Anglo-Saxon, 

come  very  near  being  anathematized, 

ib. 
Old  age,  an  advantage  of,  262. 
Old  One,  invoked,  283. 
Onesimus  made  to  serve  the  cause  of 

impiety,  278. 
O'Phace,  Increase  D.,  Esq.,  speech  of 

1.94- 
Opinion,  Brtish,  its  worth  to  us,  265. 


INDEX. 


34i 


Opinions,  certain  ones  compared  to 
winter  flies,  275. 

Oracle  of  Fools,  still  respectfully  con- 
sulted, 195. 

Orion  becomes  commonplace,  206. 

Orrery,  Lord,  his  letters,  (lord  ! )  207. 

Ostracism,  curious  species  of,  195. 

Ovidii  Nasonis,  carmen  supposititium, 
308. 


Palestine,  189. 

Paley,  his  Evidences,  324. 

Palfrey,  Hon.  J.  G.,  195,  198  (a  worthy 
representative  of  Massachusetts). 

Pantagruel  recommends  a  popular  ora- 
cle, 195. 

Pan  urge,  265  —  his  interview  with 
Goatsnose,  209. 

Paper,  plausible-looking,  wanted,  286. 

Papists,  female,  slain  by  zealous  Prot- 
estant bomb-shell,  215. 

Paralipomenon,  a  man  suspected  of  be- 
ing, 209. 

Paris,  liberal  principles  safe  as  far  away 
as,  204. 

Parliamentum  hidoctonnn  sitting  in 
permanence,  194. 

Past,  the,  a  good  nurse,  201. 

Patience,  sister,  quoted,  187. 

Patriarchs,  the,  illiterate,  261. 

Patricitis,  brogipotens,  308. 

Paynims,  their  throats  propagandisti- 
cally  cut,  189. 

Penelope,  her  wise  choice,  192. 

People,  soft  enough,  205  —  want  cor- 
rect ideas,  213  —  the,  decline  to  be 
Mexicanized,  292. 

Pepin,  King,  207. 

Pepperell,  General,  quoted,  266. 

Pequash  Junction,  314. 

Periwig,  208. 

Perley,  Mr.  Asaph,  has  charge  of  bass- 
viol,  274. 

Perseus,  King,  his  avarice,  266. 

Persius,  a  pithy  saying  of,  197,  note. 

Pescara,  Marquis,  saying  of,  185. 

Peter,  Saint,  a  letter  of  (post-mortem), 
207. 

Petrarch,  exploited  Laura,  313. 

Petronius,  265. 

Pettibone,  Jabez,  bursts  up,  280. 

Pettus  came  over  with  Wilhelmus  Con- 
quistor,  279. 


Phaon,  313. 

Pharaoh,  his  lean  kine,  272. 

Pharisees,   opprobnously   referred    to, 

204. 
Philippe,  Louis,  in  pea-jacket,  205. 
Phillips,    Wendell,    catches  a   Tartar, 

295- 

Phlegyas  quoted,  203. 

Phrygian  language,  whether  Adam 
spoke  it,  186. 

Pickens,  a  Norman  name,  279. 

Pilcoxes,  genealogy  of,  254. 

Pilgrim  Father,  apparition  of,  300. 

Pilgrims,  the,  196. 

Pillows,  constitutional,  198. 

Pine-trees,  their  sympathy,  299. 

Pinto,  Mr.,  some  letters  of  his  com- 
mended, 207. 

Pisgah,  an  impromptu  one,  215. 

Platform,  party,  a  convenient  one,  213. 

Plato,  supped  with,  207  —  his  man, 
209. 

Pleiades,  the,  not  enough  esteemed, 
206. 

Pliny,  his  letters  not  admired,  207. 

Plotinus,  a  story  of,  201. 

Plymouth  Rock,  Old,  a  Convention 
wrecked  on,  196. 

Poets  apt  to  become  sophisticated,  297. 

Point  Tribulation,  Mr.  Sawin  wrecked 
on,  214. 

Poles,  exile,  whether  crop  of  beans  de- 
pends on,  188,  note. 

Polk,  nomen  gentile.  2jq. 

Polk,  President,  synonymous  with  our 
country,  191  —  censured,  196 — in 
danger  of  being  crushed,  197. 

Polka,  Mexican,  189. 

Pomp,  a  runaway  slave,  his  nest,  219  — 
hypocritically  groans  like  white  man, 
219,  220  —  blind  to  Christian  privi- 
leges, 220  —  his  society  valued  at  fifty 
dollars,  ib.  —  his  treachery,  ib.  — 
takes  Mr.  Sawin  prisoner,  ib.  —  cru- 
elly makes  him  work,  ib.  —  puts  him- 
self illegally  under  his  tuition,  ib. — 
dismisses  him  with  contumelious  epi- 
thets, ib.  — a  negro,  256. 

Pontifical  bull  a  tamed  one,  189. 

Pope,  his  verse  excellent,  186. 

Pork,  refractory  in  boiling,  189. 

Portico,  the,  312. 

Portugal,  Alphonso  the  Sixth  of,  a 
monster,  221. 


34» 


THE   BIG  LOW  PAPERS. 


Post,  Boston,  192  —  shaken  visibly,  193 

—  bad  guide-post,  ib.  —  too  swift,  ib. 
edited  by  a  colonel,  ib.  —  who  is  pre- 
sumed officially  in  Mexico,  ib.  — re- 
ferred to,  199. 

Pot-hooks,  death  in,  210. 

Power,  a  first-class,  elements  of,  285. 

Preacher,  an  ornamental  symbol,  204  — 
a  breeder  of  dogmas,  ib.  —  earnest- 
ness of,  important,  221. 

Present,  considered  as  an  annalist,  204 

—  not  long  wonderful,  206. 
President,  slaveholding  natural  to,  205 

—  must  be  a  Southern  resident,  213 

—  must  own  a  nigger,  ib.  —  the,  his 
policy,  321  — his  resemblance  to  Jack- 
son, 322. 

Princes  mix  cocktails,  285. 
Principle,  exposure  spoils  it,  195. 
Principles,  bad,  when  less  harmful,  190. 

—  when  useless,  294. 

Professor,  Latin,  in  College,  308 

—  Scaliger,  ib. 
Prophecies,  fulfilment  of,  288. 
Prophecy,  a  notable  one,  199. 
Prospect  Hill,  267. 

Providence  has  a  natural  life-preserver, 
272. 

Proviso,  bitterly  spoken  of,  208. 

Prudence,  sister,  her  idiosyncratic  tea- 
pot, 212. 

Psammeticus,  an  experiment  of,  186. 

Psyche,  poor,  314. 

Public  opinion,  a  blind  and  drunken 
guide,  190  —  nudges  Mr.  Wilbur's 
elbow,  ib.  — ticklers  of,  197. 

Punkin  Falls  "Weekly  Parallel,"  303. 

Putnam,  General  Israel,  his  lines,  267. 

Pythagoras  a  bean-hater,  why,  209. 

Pythagoreans,  fish  reverenced  by,  why, 
200. 

Q. 

Quid,  ingens  nicotiamtm,  310. 
Quixote,  Don,  201. 


R. 

Rafn,  Professor,  289. 
Rag,  one  of  sacred  college,  190. 
Rantoul,  Mr.,  talksloudly,  187  —  pious 
reason  for  not  enlisting,  ib. 


Recruiting  sergeant,  Devil  supposed 
the  first,  185. 

Religion,  Southern,  its  commercial  ad- 
vantages, 278. 

Representatives'  Chamber,  200. 

Rhmothism,  society  for  promoting,  206. 

Rhyme,  whether  natural  not  consid* 
eied,  185. 

Rib,  an  infrangible  one,  211. 

Richard  the  First  of  England,  his 
Christian  fervor,  189. 

Riches  conjectured  to  have  legs  as  well 
as  wings,  203. 

Ricos  Hombres,  276. 

Ringtail  Rangers,  260. 

Roanoke  Island,  287. 

Robinson,  Mr.  John  P.,  his  opinions 
fully  stated,  191,  192. 

Rocks,  pocket  full  of,  211, 

Roosters  in  rainy  weather,  their  mis- 
ery, 256. 

Rotation  insures  mediocrity  and  inex- 
perience, 282. 

Rough  and  ready,  217  —  a  wig,  218  — 
a  kind  of  scratch,  ib. 

Royal    Society,    American    fellows  of, 

3°3- 

Rum  and  water  combine  kindly,  292. 

Runes  resemble  bird-tracks,  290. 

Runic  inscriptions,  their  different  grades 
of  unintelligibility  and  consequent 
value,  289. 

Russell,  Earl,  is  good  enough  to  ex- 
pound our  Constitution  for  us,  263. 

Russian  eagle  turns  Prussian  blue,  199. 

Ryeus,  Bacchi  epitheton,  310. 


Sabbath,  breach  of,  186. 

Sabellianism,  one  accused  of,  209. 

Sailors,  their  rights  how  won,  309. 

Saltillo,  unfavorable  view  of,  187. 

Salt-river,  in  Mexican,  what,  187. 

Samuel,  avunctdus,  309. 

Samuel,  Uncle,  257  —  riotous,  198  —  yet 
has  qualities  demanding  reverence, 
204  —  a  good  provider  for  his  family, 
205 — an  exorbitant  bill  of,  215  — 
makes  some  shrewd  guesses,  273, 
274  —  expects  his  boots,  280. 

Sansculottes,  draw  their  wine  befor# 
drinking,  202. 

Santa  Anna,  his  expensive  leg,  213. 


INDEX. 


343 


Sappho,  some  human  nature  in,  313. 

Sassy  Cus,  an  impudent  Indian,  266. 

Satan,  never  wants  attorneys,  189  —  an 
expert  talker  by  signs,  ib.  —  a  suc- 
cessful fisherman  with  little  or  no 
bait,  ib.  — cunning  fetch  of,  190  —  dis- 
likes ridicule,  192  —  ought  not  to  have 
credit  of  ancient  oracles,  199,  note — 
his  worst  pitfall,  278. 

Satirist,  incident  to  certain  dangers, 
190. 

Savages,  Canadian,  chance  of  redemp- 
tion offered  to,  221. 

Sawin,  B.,  Esquire,  his  letter  not  writ- 
ten inverse,  1S5  —  a  native  of  Jaalam, 
1S6 — not  regular  attendant  on  Rev. 
Mr  Wilbur's  preaching,  ib.  —  a  fool, 
ib.  —  his   statements  trustworthy,  ib. 

—  his  ornithological  tastes,  ib  — 
letter  from,  186,  210,  216  —  his  curi- 
ous discovery  in  regard  to  bayonets, 
187  —  displays  proper  family  pride, 
ib.  —  modestly  confesses  himself  less 
wise  than  the  Queen  of  Sheba,  188 

—  the   old   Adam  in,  peeps  out,  189 

—  a  miles  emeritus,  210 — is  made 
text  for  a  sermon,  ib.  —  loses  a  leg, 
ib.  —  an  eye,  211—  left  hand,  ib. — 
four  fingers  of  right  hand,  ib.  —  has 
six  or  more  ribs  broken,  ib.  —  a  rib 
of  his  infrangible,  ib.  —  allows  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  preterite  greenness  in 
himself,  ib.  — his  share  of  spoil  lim- 
ited, ib. — his  opinion  of  Mexican 
climate,  212  — acquires  property  of  a 
certain  sort,  ib.  —  his  experience  of 
glory,  ib.  —  stands  sentry,  and  puns 
thereupon,  ib.  —  undergoes  martyr- 
dom in  some  of  its  most  painful  forms, 
ib.  — ■  entersthe  candidating  business, 
213  —  modestly  states  the  (avail)  abili- 
ties which  qualify  him  for  high  polit- 
ical station,  213,  214 —  has  no  princi- 
ples, 213  —  a  peaceman,  ib. — un- 
pledged, ib.  —  has  no  objections  to 
owning  peculiar  property,  but  would 
not  like  to  monopolize  the  truth,  ib. 

—  his  account  with  glory,  214  —  a 
selfish  motive  hinted  in,  ib. — sails 
for  Eldorado,  ib.  —  shipwrecked  on  a 
metaphorical  promontory,  ib.  —  par- 
allel between,  and  Rev.  Mr.  Wil- 
bur (not  Plutarchian),  215  —  conjec- 
tured to  have  bathed  in  river  Selem- 


nus,  216  —  loves  plough  wisely,  but 
not  too  well,  ib.  —  a  foreign  mission 
probably  expected  by,  ib.  —  unani- 
mously nominated  ior  presidency,  ib. 

—  his  country's  father-in-law,  217  — 
nobly  emulates  Cincinnatus,  ib.  —  is 
not  a  crooked  stick,  ib.  —  advises  his 
adherents,  ib. — views  of,  on  present 
state  of  politics,  217-219  —  popular 
enthusiasm  for,  at  Bellers's,  and  its 
disagreeable  consequences,  218  —  in- 
human treatment  of,  by  Bellers,  ib.  — 
his  opinion  of  the  two  parties,  ib.  — 
agrees  with  Mr.  Webster,  ib.  — his 
antislavery  zeal,  219  —  his  proper 
self-respect,  ib.  —  his  unaffected  piety, 
ib.  —  his  not  intemperate  temperance, 
ib. — a  thrilling  adventure  of,  219- 
221  —  his  prudence  and  economy, 
219 — bound  to  Captain  Jakes,  but 
regains  his  freedom,  220 — is  taken 
prisoner,  ib.  —  ignominiously  treat- 
ed, 220,  221  —  his  consequent  resolu- 
tion, 221. 

Sawin,  Honorable  B.  O'F.,  a  vein  of 
humor  suspected  in,  255  —  gets  into 
an  enchanted  castle,  256  — finds  a 
wooden  leg  better  in  some  respects 
than  a  living  one,  ib.  —  takes  some- 
thing hot,  257 — his  experience  of 
Southern  hospitality,  ib.  —  water- 
proof internally,  ib.  —  sentenced  to 
ten  years'  imprisonment,  258  —  his 
liberal-handedness,  ib.  —  gets  his  ar- 
rears of  pension,  259 — marries  the 
Widow  Shannon,  ib.  —  confiscated, 
260  —  finds  in  himself  a  natural  ne- 
cessity of  income,  261  —  his  mission- 
ary zeal,  ib.  —  never  a  stated  attend- 
ant on  Mr.  Wilbur's  preaching,  274 

—  sang  bass  in  choir,  ib.  —  prudently 
avoided  contribution  toward  bell,  ib. 

—  abhors  a  covenant  of  works,  277  — 
if  saved  at  all,  must  be  saved  gen- 
teelly, ib.  — reports  a  sermon,  278  — 
experiences  religion,  ib.  —  would  con- 
sent to  a  dukedom,  279  —  converted 
to  unanimity,  280  —  sound  views  of, 
282  —  makes  himself  an  extempore 
marquis,  283  —  extract  of  letter  from, 
324,  325  —  his  opinion  of  Paddies, 
325  —  of  Johnson,  ib 

Sayres,  a  martyr,  220. 
Scaliger,  saying  of,  191. 


344 


THE   B I  GLOW  PAPERS. 


Scarabans  filularius,  188. 

Scott,  General,  his  claims  to  the  presi- 
dency, 193,  194. 

Scrimgour,  Rev.  Shearjashub,  312. 

Scythians,  their  diplomacy  commend- 
ed, 209. 

Sea,  the  wormy,  290. 

Seamen,  colored,  sold,   185. 

Secessia,  ticta,  309. 

Secession,  its  legal  nature  defined,  260. 

Secret,  a  great  military,  297. 

Selemnus,  a  sort  of  Lethean  river,  216. 

Senate,  debate  in,  made  readable,  200. 

Seneca,  saying  of,  190  —  another,  199, 
note —  overrated  by  a  saint  (but  see 
Lord  Bolingbroke's  opinion  of,  in  a 
letter  to  Dean  Swift),  207 — his  let- 
ters not  commended,  ib.  —  a  son  of 
Rev.  Mr.  Wilbur,  215  —  quoted,  304. 

Serbonian  bog  of  literature,  200. 

Sermons,  some  pitched  too  high,  275. 

Seward,  Mister,  the  late,  his  gift  of 
prophecy,  267  —  needs  stiffening,  321 
—  misunderstands  parable  of  fatted 
calf,  ib. 

Sextons,  demand  for,  187  —  heroic  offi- 
cial devotion  of  one,  221. 

Seymour,  Governor,  305. 

Shakespeare,  314  —  a  good  reporter, 
194. 

Shaking  fever,  considered  as  an  em- 
ployer, 212. 

Sham,  President,  honest,   196". 

Shannon,  Mrs.,  a  widow,  258  —  her 
family  and  accomplishments,  260  — 
has  tantrums,  ib.  —  her  religious 
views,  277,  278  —  her  notions  of  a 
moral  and  intellectual  being,  279  — 
her  maiden  name,  ib.  —  her  blue 
blood,  ib. 

Sheba,  Queen  of,  1S8. 

Sheep,  none  of  Rev.  Mr.  Wilbur's 
turned  wolves,  186. 

Shem,  Scriptural  curse  of,  221. 

Shiraz  Centre,  lead-mine  at,  280. 

Shirley,  Governor,  266. 

Shoddy,  poor  covering  for  outer  or  in- 
ner man,  3or. 

Shot  at  sight,  privilege  of  being,  280. 

Show,  natural  to  love  it,  187,  note. 

Silver  spoon  born  in  Democracy's 
mouth,  what,  197. 

Sinai  suffers  outrages,  204. 

Sin,  wilderness  of,  modern,  what,  204. 


Skim-milk  has  its  own  opinions,  301. 

Skin,  hole  in,  strange  taste  of  some 
for,  212. 

Skippers,  Yankee,  busy  in  the  slave- 
trade,  278. 

Simms,  an  intellectual  giant,  twin-birth 
with  Maury  (which  see),  280. 

Slaughter,  whether  God  strengthen  us 
for,  189. 

Slaughterers  andsoldiers  compared,  216. 

Slaughtering  nowadays  is  slaughtering, 
216. 

Slavery,  of  no  color,  184  —  corner-ston« 
of   liberty,  199  —  also   keystone,  201 

—  last  crumb  of  Eden,  203 — a  Jo- 
nah, ib.  —  an  institution,  208  —  a  pri- 
vate State  concern,  219. 

Slidell,  New  York  trash,  288.  _ 
Smith,  Joe,  used  as  a  translation,  204. 
Smith,  John,  an  interesting  character, 

206. 
Smith,  Mr.,  fears  entertained  for,  203 

—  dined  with,  207. 

Smith,  N.  B  ,  his  magnanimity,  205. 

Smithius,  dux,  30S. 

Sloanshure,  Habakkuk,  Esquire,  Presi- 
dent of  Jaalam  Bank,  283. 

Soandso,  Mr.,  the  great,  defines  his 
position,  203. 

Soft-heartedness,  misplaced,  is  soft- 
headedness,  306. 

Sol,  the  fisherman,  188  —  soundness  of 
respiratory  organs  hypothetically  at- 
tributed to,  ib 

Soldiers,  British,  ghosts  of,  insubordi- 
nate, 268. 

Solomon,  Song  of,  portions  of  it  done 
into  Latin  verse  by  Mr.  Wilbur,  307. 

Solon,  a  saying  of,  190. 

Soul,  injurious  properties  of,  282. 

South,  the,  its  natural  eloquence,  295  — 
facts  have  a  mean  spite  against,  2S8- 

South  Carolina,  futile  attempt  to  an- 
chor, 201  —  her  pedigrees,  276. 

Southern  men,  their  imperfect  notions 
of  labor,  257 — of  subscriptions,  258 

—  too  high-pressure,  261 — prima 
facie  noble,  279. 

Spanish,  to  walk,  what,  188. 

Speech-making,  an  abuse  of  gift  of 
speech,  200. 

Spirit-rapping  does  not  repay  the  spir- 
its engaged  in  it,  301. 

Split-Foot,  Old,  made  to  squirm,  261. 


INDEX. 


345 


Spring,  described,  297,  298. 

Star,    north,    subject     to     indictment, 

whether,  203. 
Statesman,  a  genuine,  defined,  294. 
Steams,  Othniel,  fable  by,  323. 
Stone  Spike,  the,  267. 
Store,  cheap  cash,  a  wicked  fraud,  215. 
Strong,  Governor  Caleb,  a  patriot,  192. 
Style,  the  catalogue,  298. 
Sumter,  shame  of,  271. 
Sunday  should  mind  its  own  business, 

294. 
Swearing  commended  as    a   figure   of 

speech,  186,  note. 
Swett,  Jethro  C,  his  fall,  317. 
Swift,  Dean,  threadbare  saying  of,  193. 


Tag,  elevated  to  the  Cardinalate,  190. 

Taney,  C.  J.,  282. 

Tarandfeather,  Rev.  Mr.,  280. 

Tarbox  Shearjashub,  first  white  child 
born  in  Jaalam,  263. 

Tartars,  Mongrel,  257. 

Taxes,  direct,  advantages  of,  215. 

Taylor,  General,  greased  by  Mr.  Choate, 
218. 

Taylor  zeal,  its  origin,  218. 

Teapots,  how  made  dangerous,  305. 

Ten,  the  upper,  280. 

Tesephone,  banished  for  long  winded- 
ness,  200. 

Thacker,  Rev.  Preserved,  D.D.,  302. 

Thanks  get  lodged,  212. 

Thanksgiving,  Feejee,  257. 

Thaumaturgus,  Saint  Gregory,  letter  of, 
to  the  Devil,  207. 

Theleme,  Abbey  of,  283. 

Theocritus,  the  inventor  of  idyllic  poe- 
try, 262. 

Theory,  defined,  292. 

Thermopyles,  too  many,  287. 
They  '11  say  "  a  notable  bully,  270. 

Thirty-nine   articles    might  be    made 
serviceable,  190. 

Thor,  a  foolish  attempt  of,  201. 

Thoreau,  262. 

Thoughts,  live  ones  characterized,  315. 

Thumb,  General  Thomas,   a  valuable 
member  of  society,  198. 

Thunder,    supposed    in   easy    circum- 
stances, 211. 

Thynne,  Mr.,  murdered,  185. 


Tibullus,  304. 

Time,  an  innocent  personage  to  swear 
by,  186  —  a  scene-shifter,  206. 

Tinkham,  Deacon  Pelatiah,  story  con- 
cerning, not  told,  255  —  alluded  to, 
262  —  does  a  very  sensible  thing,  277. 

Toms,  peeping,  206. 

Toombs,  a  doleful  sound  from,  288. 

Trees,  various  kinds  of  extraordinary 
ones,  214. 

Trowbridge,  William,  mariner,  adven- 
ture of,  189. 

Truth  and  falsehood  start  from  same 
point,  190  —  truth  invulnerable  to 
satire,  ib.  — compared  to  a  river,  194 
—  of  fiction  sometimes  truer  than  fact, 
ib.  —  told  plainly,  passim. 

Tuileries,  exciting  scene  at,  199  —  front- 
parlor  of,  285. 

Tully,  a  saying  of,  195,  note. 

Tunnel,  northwest-passage,  a  poor  in- 
vestment, 283. 

Turkey- Buzzard  Roost,  260. 

Tuscaloosa,  260. 

Tutchel,  Rev.  Jonas,  a  Sadducee,  291. 

Tweedledee,  gospel  according  to,  204. 

Tweedledum,  great  principles  of,  204. 

Tyleriis,  juvenis  ins  ignis,  308  ■ — fior- 
pJiyrogenitus,  309  —  Johannides, 
Jiito  ceteris,  310  —  bene  titus,  ib. 

Tyrants,  European,  how  made  to  trem- 
ble, 258. 

U. 

Ulysses,  husband  of  Penelope,  192  — 
borrows  money,  215  (for  full  partic- 
ulars of,  see  Homer  and  Dante)  — 
rex,  308. 

Unanimity,  new  ways  of  producing,  280 

Union,  its  hoops  off,  280  —  its  good  old 
meaning,  292. 

Universe,  its  breeching,  281. 

University,  triennial  catalogue  of,  193. 

Us,  nobody  to  be  compared  with,  258, 
and  see  World,  passim. 


V. 

Van  Buren  fails  of  gaining  Mr.  Sawin's 
confidence,  219  —  his  son  John  re- 
proved, ib. 

Van,  Old,  plan  to  set  up,  219. 


346 


THE   BIGLOIV  PAPERS. 


Vattel,  as  likely  to  fall  on  your  toes  as 

on  mine,  273. 
Venetians    invented   something   once, 

215- 
Vices,    cardinal,    sacred   conclave    of, 

190. 
Victoria,  Queen,  her  natural  terror,  198 

—  her  best  carpets,  285. 
Vinland,  290,  291. 
Virgin,  the,  letter  of,  to  Magistrates  of 

Messina,  207. 
Virginia,  descripta,  308,  309. 
Virginians,  their  false  heraldry,  275. 
Voltaire,  esprit  tie,  30S. 
Vratz,  Captain,  a  Pomeranian,  singular 

views  of,  185. 

W. 

Wachuset  Mountain,  270. 
Wait,  General,  266. 
Wales,  Prince  of,  calls  Brother  Jona- 
than  cotisangniiiens    noster,    265  — 
but  had   not,  apparently,    consulted 
the  Garter  King  at  Arms,  ib. 
Walpole,    Horace,   classed,   206  —  his 

letters  praised,  207. 
Waltham  Plain,  Cornwallis  at,  186. 
Walton,  punctilious  in  his  intercourse 

with  fishes,  190. 
War,  abstract,  horrid,  208  — itshoppers, 

grist  of,  what,  212. 
Warren,  Fort,  305. 
Warton,  Thomas,  a  story  of,  194. 
Washington,  charge  brought   against, 

217. 
Washington,  city  of,  climatic  influence 
of,  on  coats,  196  —  mentioned,  200  — 
grand  jury  of,  203. 
Washingtons,  two  hatched  at  a  time  by 

improved  machine,  217. 
Watchmanus,  noctivagus,  310. 
Water,    Taunton,   proverbially    weak, 

219. 
Water-trees,  214. 
We,  299. 

Weakwash,  a  name  fatally  typical,  266. 
Webster,    his   unabridged    quarto,   its 

deleteriousness,  308. 
Webster,   some    sentiments    of,    com- 
mended by  Mr.  Sawin,  218. 
Westcott,  Mr.,  his  horror,  202. 
Whig  party  has  a  large  throat,  193  — 
but  query  as  to  swallowing  spurs,  218. 


White-house,  208. 

Wickliffe,  Robert,  consequences  of  his 
bursting,  305. 

Wife-trees,  214. 

Wilbur,  Mrs  Dorcas  (Pilcox),  an  inva- 
riable rule  of,  193  —  her  profile,  194 

—  tribute  to,  303. 

Wilbur,  Rev.  Homer,  A.  M.,  consulted, 
183  —  his  instructions  to  his  flock, 
186  —  a  proposition  of  his  for  Prot- 
estant bomb-shells,  190  —  his  elbow 
nudged,  ib.  —  his  notions  of  satire,  ib. 

—  some  opinions  of  his  quoted  with 
apparent   approval  by   Mr.    Biglow, 

191  —  geographical   speculations  of, 

192  —  a  justice  of  the  peace,  ib.  —  a 
letter  of,  ib.  —  a  Latin  pun  of,  ib.  — 
runs  against  a  post  without  injury. 

193  —  does  not  seek  notoriety  (what- 
ever some  malignants  may  affirm),  ib. 

—  fits  youths  for  college,  ib.  —  a 
chaplain  during  late  war  with  Eng- 
land, 194  —  a  shrewd  observation  of, 
195  —  some  curious  speculations  of, 
199,  200  —  his  martello-tower,  200  — 
forgets  he  is  not  in  pulpit,  203,  210  — 
extracts  from  sermon  of,  203,  205  — 
interested  in  John  Smith,  206 — his 
views  concerning  present  state  of  let- 
ters, 206,  207  —  a  stratagem  of,  209  — 
ventures  two  hundred  and  fourth  in- 
terpretation of  Beast  in  Apocalypse, 
ib.  —  christens  Hon.  B.  Sawin,  then 
an  infant,  210  —  an  addition  to  our 
sylva  proposed  by,  214  —  curious  and 
instructive  adventure  of,  215  —  his 
account  with  an  unnatural  uncle,  215 
— his  uncomfortable  imagination,  216 

—  speculations  concerning  Cincinna- 
tus,  ib.  —  confesses  digressive  ten- 
dency of  mind,  221 — goes  to  work 
on  sermon,  (not  without  fear  that  his 
readers  will  flub  him  with  a  reproach- 
ful epithet  like  that  with  which  Isaac 
Allerton,  a  Mayflower  man,  revenges 
himself  on  a  delinquent  debtor  of  his, 
calling  him  in  his  will,  and  thus  hold- 
ing him  up  to  posterity,  as  "  John 
Peterson,  The  Bore,")  222  —  his 
modesty,  253  —  disclaims  sole  author- 
ship of  Mr.  Biglow's  writings,  ib.  — 
his  low  opinion  of  prepensive  auto- 
graphs, 254  —  a  chaplain  in  1812,  255 

—  cites  a   heathen  comedian,  #.  — 


INDEX. 


347 


his  fondness  for  the  Book  of  Job,  ib. — 
preaches  a  Fast-day  discourse,  ib.  — 
is  prevented  from  narrating  a  singular 
occurrence,  ib.  —  is  presented  with 
a  pair  of  new  spectacles,  261  —  his 
church  services  indecorously  sketched 
by  Mr.  Sawin,  278  —  hopes  to  deci- 
pher a  Runic  inscription,  283  —  a 
fable  by,  283,  284  —  deciphers  Runic 
inscription,  280-291  —  his  method 
therein,  290  —  is  ready  to  reconsider 
his  opinion  of  tobacco,  291  —  his  opin- 
ion of  the  Puritans,  296  —  his  death, 
302  —  born  in  Pigsgusset,  ib.  —  letter 
of  Rev.  Mr.  Hitchcock  concerning, 
302,  303 — fond  of  Milton's  Christ- 
mas hymn,  303  —  his  monument 
(proposed),  ib.  —  his  epitaph,  ib.  — 
his  last  letter,  304,  305  —  his  sup- 
posed disembodied  spirit,  307  —  ta- 
ble belonging  to,  ib.  —  sometimes 
wrote  Latin  verses,  ib.  —  his  table- 
talk,  311-314  —  his  prejudices,  312 
■-  against  Baptists,   ib.  —  his  sweet 


nature,  317  —  his  views  of  style,  318 
—  a  story  of  his,  319. 

Wildbore,  a  vernacular  one,  how  to 
escape,  200. 

Wilkes,  Captain,  borrows  rashly,  268. 

Wind,  the,  a  good  Samaritan,  210. 

Wingfield,  his  "  Memorial,"  276. 

Wooden  leg,  remarkable  for  sobriety, 
211  — never  eats  pudding,  ib. 

Woods,  the.     See  Belmont. 

Works,  covenants  of,  condemned,  277. 

World,  this,  its  unhappy  temper,  256. 

Wright,  Colonel,  providentially  res- 
cued, 188. 

Writing  dangerous  to  reputation,  254. 

Wrong,  abstract,  safe  to  oppose,  197. 

Y. 

Yankees,  their  worst  wooden  nutmegs, 
.  288. 


Zack,  Old,  217. 


THE   UNHAPPY   LOT    OF   MR.    KNOTT. 


1850. 


THE  UNHAPPY  LOT  OF   MR.   KNOTT. 


PART  I. 

SHOWING    HOW    HE    BUILT    HIS    HOUSE 
AND    HIS   WIFE   MOVED    INTO   IT. 

My  worthy  friend,  A.  Gordon  Knott, 

From  business  snug  withdrawn, 
Was  much  contented  with  a  lot 
That  would  contain  a  Tudor  cot 
'Twixt  twelve  feet  square  of  garden- 
plot, 
And  twelve  feet  more  of  lawn. 

He  had  laid  business  on  the  shelf 
To  give  his  taste  expansion, 

And,  since  no  man,  retired  with  pelf, 
The  building  mania  can  shun, 

Knott,  being  middle-aged  himself, 

Resolved  to  build  (unhappy  elf!) 
A  mediaeval  mansion. 

He  called  an  architect  in  counsel ; 

"I  want,"  said  he,  "a — you  know 
what, 

(You  are  a  builder,  I  am  Knott,) 

A  thing  complete  from  chimney-pot 
Down  to  the  very  grounsel  : 

Here 's  a  half-acre  of  good  land  ; 

Just     have    it   nicely   mapped    and 
planned 
And  make  your  workmen  drive  on  ; 

Meadow  there  is,  and  upland  too, 

And  I  should  like  a  water-view, 
D'  you  think  you  could  contrive  one  ? 

(Perhaps  the  pump  and  trough  would 
do, 

If  painted  a  judicious  blue?) 

The  woodland  I  've  attended  to  : 

(He   meant    three    pines    stuck    up 
askew, 
Two  dead  ones  and  a  live  one.) 

"  A  pocket-full  of  rocks  'twould  take 
To  build  a  house  of  free-stone, 

But  then  it  is  not  hard  to  make 


What  nowadays  is  the  stone  ; 
The  cunning  painter  in  a  trice 
Your  house's  outside  petrifies, 
And  people  think  it  very  gneiss 

Without  inquiring  deeper; 
My  money  never  shall  be  thrown 
Away  on  such  a  deal  of  stone, 

When  stone  of  deal  is  cheaper." 

And  so  the  greenest  of  antiques 

Was  reared  for  Knott  to  dwell  in  : 
The  architect  worked  hard  for  weekk 
In  venting  all  his  private  peaks 
Upon  the  roof,  whose  crop  of  leaks 

Had  satisfied  Fluellen; 
Whatever  anybody  had 
Out  of  the  common,  good  or  bad, 

Knott  had  it  all  worked  well  in, 
A  donjon-keep,  where   clothes  might 

dry, 
A  porter's  lodge  that  was  a  sty, 
A  campanile  slim  and  high, 

Too  small  to  hang  a  bell  in  ; 
All  up  and  down  and  here  and  there, 
With  Lord-knows-whats  of  round  and 

square 
Stuck  on  at  random  everywhere,  — 
It  was  a  house  to  make  one  stare, 

AH  corners  and  all  gables  ; 
Like  dogs  let  loose  upon  a  bear, 
Ten  emulous  styles  stadayed  whh  care, 
The  whole  among  them  seemed  to  tear, 
And  all  the  oddities  to  spare 

Were  set  upon  the  stables. 

Knott  was  delighted  with  a  pile 
Approved  by  fashion's  leaders; 

(Only  he  made  the  builder  smile, 

By  asking,  every  little  while, 

Whv  that  was  called  the  Twodoor  style, 
Which  certainly  had  three  doors?) 

Yet  better  for  this  luckless  man 

If  he  had  put  a  downright  ban 
Upon  the  thing  in  Untitle  ; 


352 


THE    UNHAPPY  LOT  OF  MR.   KNOl^T. 


For,  though  to  quit  affairs  his  plan, 
Ere  many  days,  poor  Knott  began 
Perforce  accepting  draughts,  that  ran 

All  ways  —  except  up  chimney  ; 
The   house,    though  painted   stone  to 

mock, 
With  nice  white  lines  round  every  block 

Some  trepidation  stood  in, 
When  tempests  (with  petrific  shock, 
So  to  speak,)  made  it  really  rock, 

Though  not  a  whit  less  wooden  ; 
And  painted  stone,  howe'er  well  done, 
Will  not  take  in  the  prodigal  sun 
Whose  beams  are  never  quite  at  one 

With  our  terrestrial  lumber  ; 
So  the  wood  shrank  around  the  knots, 
And  gaped  in  disconcerting  spots, 
And  there  were  lots  of  dots  and  rots 

And  crannies  without  number, 
Wherethrough,   as  you  may  well  pre- 
sume, 
The  wind,  like  water  through  a  flume, 

Came  rushing  in  ecstatic, 
Leaving,  in  all  three  floors,  no  room 

That  was  not  a  rheumatic  ; 
And,  what  with  points  and  squares  and 
rounds 

Grown  shaky  on  their  poises, 
The  house  at  nights  was  full  of  pounds, 
Thumps,   bumps,    creaks,   scratchings, 

raps  —  till  —  "Zounds  !  " 
Cried    Knott,  "  this   all   goes  beyond 

bounds ; 
I  do  not  deal  in  tongues  and  sounds, 
Nor  have  I  let  my  house  and  grounds 

To  a  family  of  Noyeses  !  " 

But,  though  Knott's  house  was  full  of 
airs, 

He  had  but  one  —  a  daughter; 
And,   as  he  owned  much  stocks  and 

shares, 
Many  who  wished  to  render  theirs 
Such  vain,  unsatisfying  cares. 
And  needed  wives  to  sew  their  tears, 

In  matrimony  sought  her  ; 
They  vowed  her  gold  they  wanted  not, 

Their  faith  would  never  falter, 
They  longed  to  tie  this  single  Knott 

In  the  Hymeneal  halter; 
So  daily  at  the  door  they  rang, 

Cards  for  the  belle  delivering, 
Or  in  the  choir  at  her  they  sang, 
Achieving  such  a  rapturous  twang 

As  set  her  nerves  ashivering. 


Now   Knott  had  quite  made   up   his 
mind 

That  Colonel  Jones  should  have  her; 
No  beauty  he,  but  oft  we  find 
Sweet  kernels  'neath  a  roughish  rind, 
So  hoped  his  Jenny  'd  be  resigned 

And  make  no  more  palaver ; 
Glanced  at  the  fact  that  love  was  blind, 
That  girls  were  ratherish  inclined 

To  pet  their  little  crosses, 
Then  nosologically  defined 
The  rate  at  which  the  system  pined 
In  those  unfortunates  who  dined 
Upon  that  metaphoric  kind 

Of  dish  —  their  own  proboscis. 

But  she,  with  many  tears  and  moans, 

Besought  him  not  to  mock  her, 
Said   't  was  too  much   for  flesh  and 

bones 
To  marry  mortgages  and  loans, 
That  fathers'  hearts  were   stocks  and 

stones, 
And  that  she  'd  go,  when  Mrs  Jones, 

To  Davy  Jones's  locker  ; 
Then  gave  her  head  a  little  toss 
That  said  as  plain  as  ever  was, 
If  men  are  always  at  a  loss 

Mere  womankind  to  bridle  — 
To  try  the  thing  on  woman  cross 

Were  fifty  times  as  idle  ; 
For  she  a  strict  resolve  had  made 

And  registered  in  private, 
That  either  she  would  die  a  maid, 
Or  else  be  Mrs.  Doctor  Slade, 

If  woman  could  contrive  it  ; 
And,  though  the  wedding-day  was  set, 

Jenny  was  more  so,  rather, 
Declaring,  in  a  pretty  pet, 
That,  howsoe'er  they  spread  their  net, 
She  would  out-Jennyral  them  yet, 

The  colonel  and  her  father. 

Just  at  this  time  the  Public's  eyes 
Were  keenly  on  the  watch,  a  stir 
Beginning  slowly  to  arise 
About  those  questions  and  replies, 
Those  raps  that  unwrapped  mysteries 

So  rapidly  at  Rochester, 
And  Knott,  already  nervous  grown 
By  lying  much  awake  alone, 
And  listening,  sometimes  to  a  moan, 

And  sometimes  to  a  clatter. 
Whene'er  the  wind  at  night  would  rouse 
The  gingerbread-work  on  his  house, 
Or  when  some  hasty-tempered  mouse, 


THE    UNHAPPY  LOT  OF  MR.   KNOTT. 


353 


Behind  the  plastering,  made  a  towse 

About  a  family  matter, 
Began  to  wonder  if  his  wife, 
A  paralytic  half  her  life, 

Which  made  it  more  surprising, 
Might  not  to  rule  him  from  her  urn, 
Have  taken  a  peripatetic  turn 

For  want  of  exorcising. 

This  thought,  once  nestled  in  his  head, 
Erelong  contagious  grew,  and  spread 
Infecting  all  his  mind  with  dread, 
Until  at  last  he  lay  in  bed 
And  heard  his  wife,  with  well-known 

tread, 
Entering  the  kitchen  through  the  shed, 

(Or  was 't  his  fancy,  mocking?) 
Opening  the  pantry,  cutting  bread, 
And  then  (she  'd  been  some  ten  years 
dead) 

Closets  and  drawers  unlocking  ; 
Or,  in  his  room  (his  breath  grew  thick) 
He  heard  the  long-familiar  click 
Of  slender  needles  flying  quick, 

As  if  she  knit  a  stocking ; 
For   whom?  — he   prayed   that    years 
might  flit 

With  pains  rheumatic  shooting, 
Before  those  ghostly  things  she  knit 
Upon  his  unfleshed  sole  might  fit, 
He  did  not  fancy  it  a  bit, 

To  stand  upon  that  footing ; 
At  other  times,  his  frightened  hairs 

Above  the  bedclothes  trusting, 
He  heard  her,  full  of  household  cares, 
(No    dream    entrapped    in    supper's 

snares, 
The  foal  of  horrible  nightmares, 
But  broad  awake,  as  he  declares,) 
Go  bustling  up  and  down  the  stairs, 
Or  setting  back  last  evening's  chairs, 

Or  with  the  poker  thrusting 
The    raked  -  up    sea  -  coal's    hardened 

crust  — 
And  —  what  !  impossible  !  it  must ! 
He  knew  she  had  returned  to  dust, 
And  yet  could  scarce  his  senses  trust, 
Hearing  her  as  she  poked  and  fussed 

About  the  parlor,  dusting  ! 

Night  after  night  he  strove  to  sleep 
And  take  his  ease  in  spite  of  it ; 
But  still  his  flesh  would  chill  and  creep, 
And,  though  two  night-lamps  he  might 
keep, 

23 


He  could  not  so  make  light  of  it. 
At  last,  quite  desperate,  he  goes 
And  tells  his  neighbors  all  his  woes, 

Which  did  but  their  amount  enhance  ; 
They  made  such  mockery  of  his  fears 
That  soon  his  days  were  of  all  jeers, 

His  nights  of  the  rueful  countenance; 
"I  thought  most  folks,"  one  neighbor 

said, 
"  Gave  up  the  ghost  when  they  were 

dead," 
Another  gravely  shook  his  head, 

Adding,  "from  all  we  hear,  it 's 
Quite  plain  poor  Knott  is  going  mad  — 
For  how  can  he  at  once  be  sad 

And  think  he  's  full  of  spirits  ? " 
A  third  declared  he  knew  a  knife  _ 

Would  cut  this  Knott  much  quicker, 
"  The  surest  way  to  end  all  strife, 
And  lay  the  spirit  of  a  wife, 

Is  just  to  take  and  lick  her  !  " 
A  temperance  man  caught  up  the  word, 
"  Ah,  yes,"  he  groaned,   "  1  've  always 
heard 

Our  poor  friend  somewhat  slanted 
Tow'rd  taking  liquor  overmuch  ; 
I  fear  these  spirits  may  be  Dutch, 
(A  sort  of  gins,  or  something  such,) 

With  which  his  house  is  haunted ; 
I  see  the  thing  as  clear  as  light,  — 
If  Knott  would  give  up  getting  tight, 

Naught  farther  would  be  wanted  "  : 
So  all  his  neighbors  stood  aloof 
And,  that  the  spirits  'neath  his  roof 
Were  not  entirely  up  to  proof, 

Unanimously  granted. 

Knott  knew  that  cocks  and  sprites  were 

foes, 
And  so  bought  up,  Heaven  only  knows 
How  many,  though  he  wanted  crows 
To  give  ghosts  caws,  as  I  suppose, 

To  think  that  day  was  breaking  ; 
Moreover  what  he  called  his  park, 
He  turned  into  a  kind  of  ark 
For  dogs,  because  a  little  bark 
Is  a  good  tonic  in  the  dark, 

If  one  is  given  to  waking  ; 
But  things  went  on  from  bad  to  worse, 
His  curs  were  nothing  but  a  curse, 

And,  what  was  still  more  shocking, 
Foul  ghosts  of  living  fowl  made  scoff 
And  would  not  think  of  going  off 

In  spite  of  all  his  cocking. 


354 


THE    UNHAPPY  LOT  OF  MR.   KN0T7. 


Shanghais,    Bucks-counties,    Domini- 

ques, 
Malays  (that  did  n't  lay  for  weeks,) 

Polanders,  Bantams,  Dorkings, 
(Waiving  the  cost,  no  trifling  ill, 
Since  each  brought  in  his  little  bill,) 
By  day  or  night  were  never  still, 
But  every  thought  of  rest  would  kill 

With  cacklings  and  with  quorkings; 
Henry  the  Eighth  of  wives  got  free 

By  a  way  he  had  of  axing  ; 
But  poor  Knott's  Tudor  henery 
Was  not  so  fortunate,  and  he 

Still  found  his  trouble  waxing  ; 
As  for  the  dogs,  the  rows  they  made, 
And  how  they  howled,  snarled,  barked 
and  bayed, 

Beyond  all  human  knowledge  is  ; 
All  night,  as  wide  awake  as  gnats, 
The  terriers  rumpused  after  rats, 
Or,  just  for  practice,  taught  their  brats 
To  worry  cast-off  shoes  and  hats, 
The  bull-dogs  settled  private  spats, 
All  chased  imaginary  cats, 
Or  raved  behind  the  fence's  slats 
At  real  ones,  or,  from  their  mats, 
With  friends,  miles  off,  held  pleasant 

chats, 
Or,  like  some  folks  in  white  cravats, 
Contemptuous  of  sharps  and  flats, 

Sat  up  and  sang  dogsologies. 
Meanwhile  the  cats  set  up  a  squall, 
And,  safe  upon  the  garden-wall, 

All  night  kept  cat-a-walling, 
As  if  the  feline  race  were  all, 
In  one  wild  cataleptic  sprawl, 

Into  love's  tortures  falling. 


PART  II. 

SHOWING  WHAT  IS  MEANT  BY  A  FLOW 
OF  SPIRITS. 

At  first  the  ghosts  were  somewhat  shy, 
Coming  when  none  but  Knott  was  nigh, 
And  people  said  't  was  all  their  eye, 
(Or  rather  his)  a  flam,  the  sly 

Digestion's  machination ; 
Some  recommended  a  wet  sheet, 
Some  a  nice  broth  of  pounded  peat, 
Some  a  cold  flat-iron  to  the  feet, 
Some  a  decoction  of  lamb's-bleat, 


Some  a  southwesterly  grair.    !  whoat ; 
Meat  was  by  some  pronounced  unmeet, 
Others  thought  fish  most  indiscreet, 
And  that  't  was  worse  than  all  to  eat 
Of  vegetables,  sour  or  sweet, 
(Except,  perhaps,  the  skin  of  beet,) 

In  such  a  concatenation  : 
One  quack  his  button  gently  plucks 
And  murmurs  "  biliary  ducks  !  " 

Says  Knott,  "  I  never  ate  one  "  : 
But  all,  though  brimming  full  of  wrath, 
Homceo,  Alio,  Hydropath, 
Concurred  in  this —  that  t'other's  path 

To  death's  door  was  the  straight  one. 
Still,  spite  of  medical  advice, 
The  ghosts  came  thicker,  and  a  spice 

Of  mischief  grew  apparent  ; 
Nor  did  they  only  come  at  night, 
But  seemed  to  fancy  broad  daylight, 
Till  Knott,  in  horror  and  affright, 

His  unoffending  hair  rent  ; 
Whene'er  with  handkerchief  on  lap, 
He  made  his  elbow-chair  a  trap, 
To  catch  an  after-dinner  nap, 
The  spirits,  always  on  the  tap, 
Would  make  a  sudden  rap,  rap,  rap, 
The  half-spun  cord  of  sleep  to  snap, 
(And  what  is  life  without  its  nap 
But  threadbareness  and  mere  mishap  ?) 
As  'twere  with  a  percussion  cap 

The  trouble's  climax  capping  ; 
It  seemed  a  party  dried  and  grim 
Of  mummies  had  come  to  visit  him, 
Each  getting  off  from  every  limb 

Its  multitudinous  wrapping ; 
Scratchings  sometimes  the  walls  ran 

round, 
The  merest  penny-weights  of  sound  ; 
Sometimes  'twas  only  by  the  pound 

They  carried  on  their  dealing, 
A  thumping  'neath  the  parlor  floor, 
Thump-bump-thump-bumping  o'er  and 

o'er, 
As  if  the  vegetables  in  store 
(Quiet  and  orderly  before) 

Were  all  together  pealing; 
You  would  have  thought  the  thing  was 

done 
By  the  spirit  of  some  son  of  a  gun, 

And  that  a  forty-two-pounder, 
Or  that   the  ghost  which  made  such 

sounds 
Could  be  none  other  than  John  Pounds, 
Of  Ragged  Schools  the  founder. 


THE    UNHAPPY  LOT  OF  MR.   KNOTT. 


35S 


Through  three  gradations  of  affright, 
The  awful  noises  reached  their  height ; 

At  first  they  knocked  nocturnally, 
Then,  for  some  reason,  changing  quite, 
(As  mourners,  after  six  months'  flight, 
Turn  suddenly  from  dark  to  light,) 

Began  to  knock  diumally, 
And  last,  combining  all  their  stocks, 

(Scotland  was  ne'er  so  full  of  Knox,) 
Into  one  Chaos  (father  of  Nox, ) 
Node  pluit  —  they  showered  knocks, 

And    knocked,    knocked,    knocked, 
eternally  ; 
Ever  upon  the  go,  like  buoys, 
(Wooden  sea-urchins,)  all  Knott's  joys, 
They  turned  to  troubles  and  a  noise 

That  preyed  on  him  internally. 

Soon  they  grew  wider  in  their  scope  ; 
Whenever  Knott  a  door  would  ope, 
It  would  ope  not,  or  else  elope 
And  fly  back  (curbless  as  a  trope 
Once  started  down  a  stanza's  slope 
By  a  bard  that  gave  it  too  much  rope  — ) 

Like  a  clap  of  thunder  slamming  ; 
And,  when  kind  Jenny  brought  his  hat, 
(She  always,  when  he  walked,  did  that,) 
Just  as  upon  his  head  it  sat, 
Submitting  to  his  settling  pat  — 
Some  unseen  hand  would  jam  it  flat, 
Or  give  it  such  a  furious  bat 

That  eyes  and  nose  went  cramming 
Up  out  of  sight,  and  consequently, 
As  when  in  life  it  paddled  free, 

His  beaver  caused  much  damning  ; 
If  these  things  seem  o'er-strained  to  be, 
Read  the  account  of  Doctor  Dee, 
'Tis  in  our  college  library  ; 
Read  Wesley's  circumstantial  plea, 
And  Mrs.  Crowe,  more  like  a  bee, 
Sucking  the  niehtshade's  honeyed  fee, 
And  Stilling's  Pneumatology  ; 
Consult  Scot,  Glanvil,  grave  Wie- 
rus,  and  both  Mathers  ;  further  see, 
Webster,  Casaubon,  James  First's  trea- 
tise, a  right  royal  Q.  E.  D. 
Writ  with  the  moon  in  perigee, 
Bodin  de  Demonomanie  — 
(Accent  that  last  line  gingerly) 
All  full  of  learning  as  the  sea 
Of  fishes,  and  all  disagree, 
Save  in  Sathanas  apage  ! 
Or,  what  will  surely  put  a  flea 
In  unbelieving  ears  —  with  glee, 


Out  of  a  paper  (sent  to  me 

By  some  friend  who  forgot  to  P... 

A...Y...  —  I  use  cryptography 

Lest  I  his  vengeful  pen  should  dree  — 

His  P...O...S...T...A...G...E...) 

Things  to  the  same  effect  I  cut, 
About  the  tantrums  of  a  ghost, 
Not  more  than  three  weeks  since,  at 
most, 

Near  Stratford,  in  Connecticut. 

Knott's  Upas  daily  spread  its  roots, 
Sent  up  on  all  sides  livelier  shoots, 
And  bore  more  pestilential  fruits  ; 
The   ghosts   behaved    like    downright 

brutes, 
They  snipped  holes  in  his  Sunday  suits, 
Practised  all  night  on  octave  flutes, 
Put  peas  (not  peace)  into  his  boots, 

Whereof  grew  corns  in  season, 
They  scotched   his  sheets,   and,  what 

was  worse, 
Stuck  his  silk  nightcap  full  of  burs, 
Till  he,  in  language  plain  and  terse, 
(But  much  unlike  a  Bible  verse,) 

Swore  he  should  lose  his  reason. 

The  tables  took  to  spinning,  too, 
Perpetual  yarns,  and  arm-chairs  grew 

To  prophets  and  apostles  ; 
One  footstool  vowed  that  only  he 
Of  law  and  gospel  held  the  key, 
That  teachers  of  whate'er  degree 
To  whom  opinion  bows  the  knee 
Wern't  fit  to  teach  Truth's  a.  b.  c. 
And  were  (the  whole  lot)  to  a  T 

Mere  fogies  all  and  fossils  ; 
A  teapoy,  late  the  property 

Of  Knox's  Aunt  Keziah, 
(Whom  Jenny  most  .irreverently 
Had  nicknamed  her  aunt-tipathy) 
With  tips  emphatic  claimed  to  be 

The  prophet  Jeremiah  ; 
The  tins  upon  the  kitchen-wall, 
Turned  tintinnabulators  all, 
And  things  that  used  to  come  at  call 

For  simple  household  services 
Began  to  hop  and  whirl  and  prance, 
Fit  to  put  out  of  countenance 
The  Commis  and  Griseifes  of  France 

Or  Turkey's  dancing  Dervises. 

Of  course  such  doings,  far  and  wide, 
With  rumors  filled  the  country-side. 


35° 


THE    UNHAPPY  LOT  OF  MR.   KNOTT. 


And  (as  it  is  our  nation's  pride 
To  think  a  Truth  not  verified 
Till  with  majorities  allied) 
Parties  sprung  up,  affirmed,  denied, 
And  candidates  with  questions  plied, 
Who,  like  the  circus-riders,  tried 
At  once  both  hobbies  to  bestride, 
And  each  with  his  opponent  vied 

In  being  inexplicit. 
Earnest  inquirers  multiplied  ; 
Folks,  whose  tenth  cousins  lately  died, 
Wrote  letters  long,  and  Knott  replied  ; 
All  who  could  either  walk  or  ride 
Gathered  to  wonder  or  deride, 
And  paid  the  house  a  visit ; 
Horses  were  at  his  pine-trees  tied, 
Mourners  in  every  corner  sighed, 
Widows  brought  children    there   that 

cried, 
Swarms  of  lean  Seekers,  eager-eyed, 
(People  Knott  never  could  abide,) 
Into  each  hole  and  cranny  pried 
With  strings  of  questions  cut  and  dried 
From  the  Devout  Inquirer's  Guide, 
For  the  wise  spirits  to  decide  — 

As,  for  example,  is  it 
True   that  the    damned    are   fried   or 

boiled? 
Was  the  Earth's  axis  greased  or  oiled  ? 
Who  cleaned  the   moon   when  it  was 

soiled? 
How  baldness  might  be  cured  or  foiled  ? 
How  heal  diseased  potatoes? 

Did  spirits  have  the  sense  of  smell  ? 
Where  would  departed  spinsters  dwell? 
If  the  late  Zenas  Smith  were  well  ? 
If  Earth  were  solid  or  a  shell  ? 

Were  spirits  fond  of  Doctor  Fell? 

Z'/a'the  bull  toll  Cock-Robin's  knell? 

What  remedy  would  bugs  expel  ? 

If  Paine's  invention  were  a  sell  ? 

Did  spirits  by  Webster's  system  spell  ? 

Was  it  a  sin  to  be  a  belle  ? 

Did  dancing  sentence  folks  to  hell  ? 

If  so,  then  where  most  torture  fell  — 
On  little  toes  or  great  toes? 

If  life's  true  seat  were  in  the  brain  ? 

Did  Ensign  mean  to  marry  Jane? 

By  whom,  in  fact,  was  Morgan  slain? 

Could  matter  ever  suffer  pain  ? 

What  would  take  out  a  cherry-stain  ? 

Who  picked  the  pocket  of  Seth  Crane, 

Of  Waldo  precinct,  State  of  Maine  ? 

Was  Sir  John  Franklin  sought  in  vain  ? 


Did  primitive  Christians  ever  train  ? 
What  was  the  family-name  of  Cain  ? 
Them    spoons,    were    they    by    Betty 

ta'en  ? 
Would    earth-worm    poultice    cure    a 

sprain  ? 
Was  Socrates  so  dreadful  plain  ? 
What  teamster  guided  Charles's  wain? 
Was  Uncle  Ethan  mad  or  sane, 
And  could  his  will  in  force  remain  ? 
If  not,  what  counsel  to  retain  ? 
Did  Le  Sage  steal  Gil  Bias  from  Spain? 
Was  Junius  writ  by  Thomas  Paine  ? 
Were  ducks  discomforted  by  rain  ? 
How  did  Britannia  rule  the  main? 
Was  Jonas  coming  back  again  ? 
Was  vital  truth  upon  the  wane  ? 
Did  ghosts,  to  scare  folks,  drag  a  chain? 
Who  was  our  Huldah's  chosen  swain  ? 
Did   none  have  teeth   pulled   without 
payin', 

Ere  ether  was  invented  ? 
Whether  mankind  would  not  agree, 
If  the  universe  were  tuned  in  C.  ? 
What  was  it  ailed  Lucindy's  knee? 
Whether  folks  eat  folks  in  Feejee  ? 
Whether  his  name  would  end  with  T.  ) 
If  Saturn's  rings  were  two  or  three, 
And  what  bump  in  Phrenology 

They  truly  represented  ? 
These    problems  dark,   wherein    they 

groped, 
Wherewith  man's  reason  vainly  coped, 
Now  that  the  spirit-world  was  oped, 
In  all  humility  they  hoped 

Would  be  resolved  instanter  ; 
Each  of  the  miscellaneous  rout 
Brought  his,  or  her,  own  little  doubt, 
And  wished  to  pump  the  spirits  out, 
Through  his,  or  her,  own  private  spout, 

Into  his  or  her  decanter. 


PART  III 

WHEREIN  IT  IS  SHOWN  THAT  THE 
MOST  ARDENT  SPIRITS  ARE  MORE 
ORNAMENTAL  THAN  USEFUL 

Many  a  speculating  wight 
Came  by  express-trains,  day  and  night, 
To  see  if  Knott  would  "  sell  his  right," 
Meaning  to  make  the  ghosts  a  sight  — 
What  they  called  a  "  meenaygerie  "  ; 


THE    UNHAPPY  LOT  OF  MR.   KNOTT. 


357 


One    threatened,    if    he    would    not 

"trade," 
His  fun  of  custom  to  invade, 
(He   could   not  these  sharp  folks  per- 
suade 
That  he  was  not,  in  some  way,  paid,) 

And  stamp  him  as  a  plagiary, 
By  coming  down,  at  one  fell  swoop, 
With    the    ORIGINAL    knocking 

TROUPE, 

Come  recently  from  Hades, 
Who  (for  a  quarter-dollar  heard) 
Would  ne'er  rap  out  a  hasty  word 
Whence  any  blame  might  be  incurred 

From  the  most  fastidious  ladies  ; 
The  late  lamented  Jesse  Soule 
To  stir  the  ghosts  up  with  a  pole 
And  be  director  of  the  whole, 

Who  was  engaged  the  rather 
For  the  rare  merits  he  'd  combine, 
Having  been  in  the  spirit  Hue, 
Which  trade  he  only  did  resign, 
With  general  applause,  to  shine, 
Awful  in  mail  of  cotton  fine, 

As  ghost  of  Hamlet's  father  ! 
Another  a  fair  plan  reveals 
Never  yet  hit  on,  which,  he  feels, 
To  Knott's  religious  sense  appeals  — 
"  We  '11  have  your  house  set  up  on 
wheels, 

A  speculation  pious  ; 
For  music,  we  can  shortly  find 
A  barrel-organ  that  will  grind 
Psalm-tunes,  —  an  instrument  designed 
For  the  New  England  tour — refined 
From  secular  drosses,  and  inclined 
To  an  unworldly  turn,  (combined 

With  no  sectarian  bias  ;) 
Then,  travelling  by  stages  slow, 
Under  the  style  of  Knott  &  Co., 
I  would  accompany  the  show 
As  moral  lecturer,  the  foe 
Of  Rationalism  ;  you  could  throw 
The  rappings  in,  and  make  them  go 
Strict  Puritan  principles,  you  know, 
(How  do  you   make   'em  ?  with   your 

toe?) 
And  the  receipts  which  thence  might 
flow, 

We  could  divide  between  us  ; 
Still  more  attractions  to  combine, 
Beside  these  services  of  mine, 
I  will  throw  in  a  very  fine 
(It  would  do  nicely  for  a  sign) 


Original  Titian's  Venus." 
Another  offered  handsome  fees 
If  Knott  would  get  Demosthenes 
(Nay,  his  mere  knuckles,  for  more  ease) 
To  rap  a  few  short  sentences  ; 
Or  if,  for  want  of  proper  keys, 

His  Greek  might  make  confusion. 
Then  just  to  get  a  rap  from  Burke, 
To  recommend  a  little  work 

On  Public  Elocution. 
Meanwhile,  the  spirits  made  replies 
To  all  the  reverent  whats  and  whys, 
Resolving  doubts  of  every  size, 
And  giving  seekers  grave  and  wise, 
Who  came  to  know  their  destinies, 

A  rap-turous  reception  ; 
When  unbelievers  void  of  grace 
Came  to  investigate  the  place, 
(Creatures  of  Sadducistic  race, 
With  grovelling  intellects  and  base,) 
They  could  not  find  the  slightest  trace 

To  indicate  deception  ; 
Indeed,  it  is  declared  by  some 
That  spirits  (of  this  sort)  are  glum, 
Almost,  or  wholly,  deaf  and  dumb, 
And  (out  of  self-respect)  quite  mum 
To  sceptic  natures  cold  and  numb, 
Who  of  this  kind  of  Kingdom  Come 

Have  not  a  just  conception  : 
True,  there  were  people  who  demurred 
That,  though  the  raps  no  doubt  were 
heard 

Both  under  them  and  o'er  them, 
Yet,  somehow,  when  a  search  the  v  made, 
They  found  Miss  Jenny  sore  afraid, 
Or  Jenny's  lover,  Doctor  Slade, 
Equally  awe-struck  and  dismayed, 
Or  Deborah,  the  chamber-maid, 
Whose  terrors  not  to  be  gainsaid, 
In  laughs  hysteric  were  displayed, 

Was  always  there  before  them  ; 
This  had  its  due  effect  with  some 
Who     straight     departed,     muttering, 
Hum  ! 

Transparent  hoax  !  and  Gammon  ! 
But  these  were  few  :  believing  souls 
Came,  day  by  day,  in  larger  shoals, 
As  the  ancients  to  the  windy  holes 
'Neath   Delphi's  tripod   brought  theh> 
doles, 

Or  to  the  shrine  of  Ammon. 

The  spirits  seemed  exceeding  tame. 
Call  whom  you  fancied,  and  he  came; 


353 


THE    UNHAPFY  LOT  OF  MR.   KNOTT. 


The  shades  august  of  eldest  fame 

You  summoned  with  an  awful  ease  ; 
As  grosser  spirits  gurgled  out 
From  chair  and  table  with  a  spout, 
In  Auerbach's  cellar  once,  to  flout 
The  senses  of  the  rabble  rout, 
Where'er  the  gimlet  twirled  about 

Of  cunning  Mephistophiles  — 
So  did  these  spirits  seem  in  store, 
Behind  the  wainscot  or  the  door, 
Ready  to  thrill  the  being's  core 
Of  every  enterprising  bore 

With  their  astounding  glamour  ; 
Whatever  ghost  one  wished  to  hear, 
By  strange  coincidence,  was  near 
To  make  the  past  or  future  clear 

(Sometimes  in  shocking  grammar) 
By   raps   and   taps,   now    there,    now 

here  — 
It  seemed  as  if  the  spirit  queer 
Of  some  departed  auctioneer 
Were  doomed  to  practise  by  the  year 

With  the  spirit  of  his  hammer  ; 
Whate'er  you  asked  was  answered,  yet 
One  could  not  very  deeply  get 
Into  the  obliging  spirits'  debt, 
Because  they  used  the  alphabet 

In  all  communications, 
And  new  revealings  (though  sublime) 
Rapped  out,  one  letter  at  a  time, 

With  boggles,  hesitations, 
Stoppings,  beginnings  o'er  again, 
And  getting  matters  into  train. 
Could  hardly  overload  the  brain 

With  too  excessive  rations, 
Since  just  to  ask  if  two  ami  two 
Really   make  four  ?    or,    How  d  ye 

do? 
And  get  the  fit  replies  thereto 
In  the  tramundane  rat-tat-too, 

Might  ask  a  whole  day's  patience. 

'Twas  strange  ('mongst  other  things)  to 

find 
In  what  odd  sets  the  ghosts  combined, 

Happy  forthwith  to  thump  any 
Piece  of  intelligence  inspired, 
The  truth  whereof  had  been  inquired 

By  some  one  of  the  company  ; 
For  instance,  Fielding,  Mirabeau, 
Orator  Henley,  Cicero, 
Paley,  John  Zisca,  Marivaux, 
Melancthon,  Robertson,  Junot, 
Scaliger,  Chesterfield,  Rousseau, 


Hakluyt,  Boccaccio,  South,  De  Foe, 
Diaz,  Josephus,  Richard  Roe, 
Odin,  Arminius,  Charles  le  gros, 
Tiresias,  the  late  James  Crow, 
Casabianca,  Grose,  Prideaux, 
Old    Grimes,    Young    Norval,    Swift. 

Brissot, 
Maimonides,  the  Chevalier  D'O, 
Socrates,  Fenelon,  Job,  Stow, 
The  inventor  of  Elixir  pro, 
Euripides,  Spinoza,  Poe, 
Confucius,  Hiram  Smith,  and  Fo, 
Came  (as  it  seemed,  somewhat  de  tro/) 
With  a  disembodied  Esquimaux, 
To  say  that  it  was  so  and  so, 

With  Franklin's  expedition  ; 
One  testified  to  ice  and  snow, 
One  that  the  mercury  was  low, 
One  that  his  progress  was  quite  slow. 
One  that  he  much  desired  to  go, 
One  that  the  cook  had  frozen  his  toe, 
(Dissented  from  by  Dandolo, 
Wordsworth,  Cynaegirus,  Boileau, 
La  Hontan,  and  Sir  Thomas  Roe,) 
One  saw  twelve  white  bears  in  a  row, 
One  saw  eleven  and  a  crow, 
With  other  things  we  could  not  know 
(Of  great  statistic  value,  though) 

By  our  mere  mortal  vision. 

Sometimes  the  spirits  made  mistakes, 
And  seemed  to  play  at  ducks  and  drakes 
With  bold  inquiry's  heaviest  stakes 

In  science  or  in  mystery  ; 
They  knew  so  little  (and  that  wrong) 
Yet  rapped  it  out  so  bold  and  strong, 
One  would  have  said  the  entire  throng 

Had  been  Professors  of  History  ; 
What  made  it  odder  was,  that  those 
Who,  you  would  naturally  suppose, 
Could  solve  a  question,  if  they  chose, 
As  easily  as  count  their  toes, 

Were  just  the  ones  that  blundered  i 
One  day,  Ulysses  happening  down, 
A  reader  of  Sir  Thomas  Browne 

And  who  (with  him)  had  wondered 
What  song  it  was  the  Sirens  sang, 
Asked   the   shrewd   Ithacan  —  bang  \ 

bang  ! 
With  this  response  the  chamber  rang, 

"  I  guess  it  was  Old  Hundred." 
And  Franklin,  being  asked  to  name 
The  reason  why  the  lightning  came, 
Replied,  "  Because  it  thundered." 


THE    UNHAPPY  LOT  OF  MR.  KNOTT. 


359 


On  one  sole  point  the  ghosts  agreed, 
One  fearful  point,  than  which,  indeed, 

Nothing  could  seem  absurder  ; 
Poor  Colonel  Jones  they  all  abused, 
And  finally  downright  accused 

The  poor  old  man  of  murder  ; 
'T  was  thus  ;    by   dreadful    raps  was 

shown 
Some  spirit's  longing  to  make  known 
A  bloody  fact,  which  he  alone 
Was  privy  to,  (such  ghosts  more  prone 

In  Earth's  affairs  to  meddle  are  ;) 
Who  are  you  ?  with  awe-stricken  looks, 
All  ask  :  his  airy  knuckles  he  crooks, 
And  raps,  "  I  was  Eliab  Snooks, 

That  used  to  be  a  pedler  ; 
Some  on  ye  still  are  on  my  books !  " 
Whereat,  to  inconspicuous  nooks, 
(More     fearing    this    than     common 
spooks,) 

Shrank  each  indebted  meddler; 
Further  the  vengeful  ghost  declared 
That  while  his  earthly  life  was  spared, 
About  the  country  he  had  fared, 

A  duly  licensed  follower 
Of  that  much-wandering  trade  that  wins 
Slow  profit  from  the  sale  of  tins 

And  various  kinds  of  hollow-ware  ; 
That  Colonel  Jones  enticed  him  in, 
Pretending  that  he  wanted  tin, 
There  slew  him  with  a  rolling-pin, 
Hid  him  in  a  potato-bin, 

And  (the  same  night)  him  ferried 
Across  Great  Pond  to  t'other  shore, 
And  there,  on  land  of  Widow  Moore, 
Just  where  you  turn  to  Larkin's  store, 

Under  a  rock  him  buried  ; 
Some  friends  (who  happened  to  be  by) 
He  called  upon  to  testify 
That  what  he  said  was  not  a  lie, 

And  that  he  did  not  stir  this 
Foul  matter,  out  of  any  spite 
But  from  a  simple  love  of  right ;  — 

Which   statements  the    Nine    Wor- 
thies, 
Rabbi  Akiba,  Charlemagne, 
Seth,  Colley  Cibber,  General  Wayne, 
Cambyses,  Tasso,  Tubal-Cain, 
The  owner  of  a  castle  in  Spain, 
Jehanghire,  and  the  Widow  of  Nain, 
(The  friends  aforesaid,)  made  more  plain 

And  by  loud  raps  attested  ; 
To  the  same  purport  testified 
Plato,  John  Wilkes,  and  Colonel  Pride 


Who  knew  said  Snooks  before  he  died, 

Had  in  his  wares  invested, 
Thought  him  entitled  to  belief 
And  freely  could  concur,  in  brief, 

In  everything  the  rest  did. 

Eliab  this  occasion  seized, 
(Distinctly  here  the  spirit  sneezed,) 
To  say  that  he  should  ne'er  be  eased 
Till  Jenny  married  whom  she  pleased, 

Free  from  all  checks  and  urgin's, 
(This  spirit  dropt  his  final  g's) 
And  that,  unless  Knott  quickly  sees 
This  done,  the  spirits  to  appease, 
They  would  come  back  his  life  to  tease, 
As  thick  as  mites  in  ancient  cheese, 
And  let  his  house  on  an  endless  lease 
To  the  ghosts  (terrific  rappers  these 
And  veritable  Eumenides) 

Of  the  Eleven  Thousand  Virgins  ! 

Knott  was  perplexed  and  shook  his 

head, 
He  did  not  wish  his  child  to  wed 

With  a  suspected  murderer, 
(For,  true  or  false,  the  rumor  spread,) 
But  as  for  this  roiled  life  he  led, 
"  It  would  not  answer,"  so  he  said, 

"  To  have  it  go  no  furderer." 
At  last,  scarce  knowing  what  it  meant, 
Reluctantly  he  gave  consent 
That  Jenny,  since  'twas  evident 
That  she  would  follow  her  own  bent, 

Should  make  her  own  election  ; 
For  that  appeared  the  only  way 
These  frightful  no'ses  to  allay 
Which  had  already  turned  him  gray 

And  plunged  him  in  dejection. 

Accordingly,  this  artless  maid 
Her  father's  ordinance  obeyed, 
And,  all  in  whitest  crape  arrayed, 
(Miss  Pulsifer  the  dresses  made 
And  wishes  here  the  fact  displayed 
That  she  still  carries  on  the  trade, 
The  third  door  south  from  Bagg's  Ar- 
cade,) 
A  very  faint  "  I  do  "  essayed 
And  gave  her  hand  to  Hiram  Slade, 
From  which  time  forth,  the  ghosts  were 
laid, 
And  ne'er  gave  trouble  after  ; 
But  the  Selectmen,  be  it  known, 


36o 


THE    UNHAPPY  LOT  OF  MR.   KNOTT. 


Dug  underneath  the  aforesaid  stone, 
Where  the  poor  pedler's  corpse  was 

thrown, 
And  found  thereunder  a  jaw-bone, 
Though,  when  the  crowner  sat  thereon, 
He  nothing  hatched,  except  alone 

Successive  broods  of  laughter ; 
It  was  a  frail  and  dingy  thing, 
In  which  a  grinder  or  two  did  cling, 

In  color  like  molasses, 
Which  surgeons,  called  from  far  and 

wide, 
Upon  the  horror  to  decide, 

Having  put  on  their  glasses, 
Reported  thus —  "  To  judge  by  looks, 
These  bones,  by  some  queer  hooks  or 

crooks, 
May  have  belonged  to  Mr.  Snooks, 
But,  as  men  deepest-read  in  books 

Are  perfectly  aware,  bones, 
If  buried  fifty  years  or  so, 
Lose  their  identity  and  grow 

From  human  bones  to  bare  bones." 

Still,  if  to  Jaalam  you  go  down, 
You  '11  find  two  parties  in  the  town, 
One  headed  by  Benaiah  Brown, 
And  one  by  Perez  Tinkham  , 
The  first  believe  the  ghosts  all  through 
And  vow  that  they  shall  never  rue 
The  happy  chance  by  which  they  knew 
That  people  in  Jupiter  are  blue, 
And  very  fond  of  Irish  stew, 


Two  curious  facts  which  Prince  Lee 

Boo 
Rapped  clearly  to  a  chosen  few  — 

Whereas  the  others  think  'em 
A  trick  got  up  by  Doctor  Slade 
With  Deborah  the  chamber-maid 

And  that  sly  cretur  Jinny. 
That  all  the  revelations  wise, 
At  which  the  Brownites  made  big  eyes, 
Might  have  been  given  by  Jared  Keyes, 

A  natural  fool  and  ninny, 
And,  last  week,  did  n't  Eliab  Snooks 
Come  back  with  never  better  looks, 
As    sharp    as    new-bought    mackerel 
hooks, 

And  bright  as  a  new  pin,  eh  ? 
Good  Parson  Wilbur,  too,  avers 
(Though  to  be  mixed  in  parish  stirs 
Is  worse  than  handling  chestnut-burrs) 
That  no  case  to  his  mind  occurs 
Where  spirits  ever  did  converse 
Save  in  a  kind  of  guttural  Erse, 

(So  say  the  best  authorities  ;) 
And  that  a  charge  by  raps  conveyed, 
Should  be  most  scrupulously  weighed 

And  searched  into,  before  it  is 
Made  public,  since  it  may  give  pain 
That  cannot  soon  be  cured  again, 
And  one  word  may  infix  a  stain 

Which  ten  cannot  gloss  over, 
Though  speaking  for  his  private  part, 
He  is  rejoiced  with  all  his  heart 

Miss  Knott  missed  not  her  lover. 


AN    ORIENTAL   APOLOGUE. 


AN    ORIENTAL    APOLOGUE. 


Somewhere  in  India,  upon  a  time, 
(Read  it  not   Injah,  or  you   spoil  the 
verse.) 
There  dwelt  two  saints  whose  privi- 
lege sublime 
It  was  to  sit  and  watch  the  world  grow 
worse, 
Their   only  care  (in    that  delicious 
clime) 
At  proper  intervals  to  pray  and  curse  ; 
Pracrit    the    dialect    each    prudent 

brother 
Used  for  himself,  Damnonian  for  the 
other. 


One  half  the  time  of  each  was  spent 
in  praying 
Forblessmgson  hisown  unworthy  head, 
The  other  half  in  fearfully  portraying 
Where   certain   folks   would  go   when 
they  were  dead  ; 
This  system  of  exchanges  —  there  's 
no  saying 
To  what  more  solid  barter  't  would  have 
led, 
But  that  a  river,  vext  with  boils  and 

swellings 
At  rainy  times,  kept  peace  between 
their  dwellings. 

m. 

So  they  two  played  at  wordy  battle- 
dore 
And  kept  a  curse  forever  in  the  air, 
Flying  this  way  or  that  from  shore  to 
shore  ; 
No  other  labor  did  this  holy  pair, 
Clothed  and  supported  from  the  lav- 
ish store 
W'.iich  crowds  lanigero'is  brought  wu) 
daily  care ; 


They  toiled  not  neither  did  they  spin ; 

their  bias 
Was  tow'rd  the  harder  task  of  being 

pious. 

IV. 

Each  from  his  hut  rushed  six  score 
times  a  day, 
Like  a  great  canon  of  the  Church  full- 
rammed 
With  cartridge  theologic,  (so  to  say,) 
Touched  himself  off,  and  then,  recoil- 
ing, slammed 
His  hovel's  door  behind  him  in  a  way 
That  to  his  foe  said  plainly,  — you  11 
be  damned  ; 
And  so  like  Potts  and  Wainwright, 

shrill  and  strong 
The  two  D — D'd  each  other  all  day 
long. 

v. 
One  was  a  dancing  Dervise,  a  Mo- 
hammedan, 
The  other  was  a  Hindoo,  a  gymnoso- 
phist  : 
One  kept  his  whatd'yecallit  and  his 
Ramadan, 
Laughing  to  scorn  the  sacred  rites  and 
laws  of  his 
Transfluvial  rival,  who,  in  turn,  called 
Ahmed  an 
Old  top,  and,  asa clincher,  shook  across 
a  fist 
With  nails  six  inches  long,  yet  lifted 

not 
His  eyes  from  off  his  navel's  mystic 
knot. 

VI. 

"  Who  whirls  not  round  six  thousand 

times  an  hour 
Will  go,"  screamed  Ahmed,    "to  thi 
I  evil  place  ; 


364 


AN  ORIENTAL   APOLOGUE. 


May  he  eat  dirt,  and  may  the  dog  and 

Giaour 
Defile  the  graves  of  him  and  all  his 

race  ; 
Allah  loves  faithful  souls  and  gives 

them  power 
To  spin  till  they  are  purple  in  the  face  ; 
Some  folks  get  you  know  what,  but 

he  that  pure  is 
Earns  Paradise  and  ninety  thousand 

houries." 


"Upon  the  silver  mountain,  South 

by  East, 
Sits  Brahma  fed  upon  the  sacred  bean  ; 
He  loves  those  men  whose  nails  are 

still  increased, 
Who  all  their  lives  keep  ugly,  foul,  and 

lean; 
'T  is  of  his  grace  that  not  a  bird  or 

beast 
Adorned  with  claws  like  mine  was  ever 

seen  ; 
The  suns  and   stars  are  Brahma's 

thoughts  divine 
Even  as  these  trees  I  seem  to  see  are 

mine." 


"Thou    seem'st    to    see,    indeed  1" 

roared  Ahmed  back ; 
"Were  I  but  once  across  this  plaguy 

stream, 
With  a  stout  sapling  in  my  hand,  one 

whack 
On  those  lank  ribs  would  rid  thee  of 

that  Dream  ! 
Thy  Brahma-blasphemy  is  ipecac 
To   my  soul's  stomach ;   couldst  thou 

grasp  the  scheme 
Of  true    redemption,   thou  wouldst 

know  that  Deity 
Whirls  by  a  kind  of  blessed  sponta- 
neity. 


"  And  this  it  is  which  keeps  our  earth 
here  going 
With  all  the  stars."  — "O,  vile  I  but 
there  's  a  place 

Prepared  for  such  ;  to  think  of  Brah- 
ma throwing 


Worlds  like  a  juggler's  balls  up  irto 
Space  1 
Why,  not  so  much  as  a  smooth  lotos 
blowing 
Is  e'er  allowed  that  silence  to  efface 
Which  broods  around  Brahma,  and 

our  earth,  't  is  known, 
Rests  on  a  tortoise,  moveless  as  tlm 
stone." 

x. 

So  they  kept  up  their  banning  amO 

bean, 
When  suddenly  came  floating  down  the 

stream 
A  youth  whose  face  like  an  incarnate 

pasan 
Glowed,  't  was  so  full  of  grandeur  and 

of  gleam ; 
"  If  there  be  gods,  then,  doubtless, 

this  must  be  one," 
Thought  both  at  once,  and  then  began 

to  scream, 
"Surely,  whate'er  immortals  know, 

thou  knowest, 
Decide  between  us  twain  before  thou 

goestl" 

XI. 

The  youth  was  drifting  in  a  slim  oa- 
noe 
Most  like  a  huge  white  waterlily's  petal, 
But  neither  of  our  theologians  kn^w 
Whereof    't  was    made ;    whether    of 
heavenly  metal 
Unknown,  or  of  a  vast  pearl  split  in 
two 
And  hallowed,  was  a  point  they  could 
not  settle ; 
'T  was    good   debate-seed,    though, 

and  bore  large  fruit 
In  after  years  of  many  a  tart  dispute. 


There  were  no  wings  upon  the  stran- 
ger's shoulders 
And  yet  he  seemed  so  capable  of  rising 
That,  had  he  soared  like  thistledown, 
beholders 
Had  thought  the  circumstance  noways 
surprising ; 
Enough  that  he  remained,  and,  when 
the  scolders 


AN  ORIENTAL   APOLOGUE. 


36s 


Hailed  him  as  umpire  in  their  vocal 

prize-ring, 
The  painter  of  his  boat  he  lightly 

threw 
Around  a  lotos-stem,   and    brought 

her  to. 

XIII. 

The  strange  youth  had  a  look  as  if 
he  might 
Have  trod  far  planets  where  the  atmos- 
phere 
(Of  nobler  temper)  steeps  the  face 
with  light, 
Just  as  our  skins  are  tanned  and  freck- 
led here ; 
His  air  was  that  of  a  cosmopolite 
In  the  wide  universe  from  sphere  to 
sphere  ; 
Perhaps  he  was  (his  face  had  such 

grave  beauty) 
An  officer  of  Saturn's  guards  off  duty. 

XIV. 

Both  saints  began  to  unfold  their  tales 
at  once, 
Both  wished  their  tales,  like  simial  ones, 
prehensile, 
That  they  might  seize  his  ear;  fool  I 
kttave  !  and  dunce  ! 
Flew  zigzag  back  and  forth,  like  strokes 
of  pencil 
In  a  child's  fingers ;  voluble  as  duns, 
They  jabbered  like  the  stones  on  that 
immense  hill 
In  the   Arabian  Nights;    until  the 

stranger 
Began  to  think  his  ear-drums  iu  some 
danger. 

xv. 
In  general  those  who  nothing  have  to 
say 
Contrive  to  spend  the  longest  time  in 
doing  it ; 
They  turn  and  vary  it  in  every  way, 
Hashing  it,  stewing  it,  mincing  it,  ra- 
gouting  it ; 
Sometimes  they  keep  it  purposely  at 
bay,  .  .      . 

Then  let  it  slip  to  be  again  pursuing  it ; 
They  drone  it,  groan  it,   whisper  it 
and  shout  it, 


Refute  it,  flout  it,  swear  to  't,  prove 
it,  doubt  it. 


Out  saints  had   practised  for  some 
thirty  years ; 
Their  talk,  beginning  with  a  single  stem, 
Spread  like  a  banyan,  sending  down 
live  piers, 
Colonies  of  digression,  and,  in  them, 
Germs  of  yet  new  migrations  ;   once 
by  the  ears, 
They  could  convey  damnation  in  a  hem, 
And  blow  the  pinch  of  premise-prim- 
ing off 
Long   syllogistic   batteries,    with   a 
cough. 

XVII. 

Each  had  a  theory  that  the  human 
ear 
A  providential  tunnel  was,  which  led 
To  a  huge  vacuum  (and  surely  here 
They  showed  some  knowledge  of  the 
general  head), 
For  cant  to  be  decanted  through,  a 
mere 
Auricular  canal  or  raceway  to  be  fed 
All  day  and  night,  in  sunshine  and  in 

shower, 
From  their  vast  heads  of  milk-and- 
water-power. 

XVIII. 

The  present  being  a  peculiar  case, 
Each  with   unwonted    zeal    the  other 

scouted, 
Put  his  spurred  hobby  through  its 

every  pace, 
Pished,    pshawed,   poohed,   horribled, 

bahed,  jeered,  sneered,  flouted, 
Sniffed,  nonsensed,  infideled,  fudged, 

with  his  face 
Looked  scorn  too  nicely  shaded  to  be 

shouted, 
And,  with  each  inch  of  person  and  of 

vesture, 
Contrived  to  hint  some  most  disdain- 
ful gesture. 


At  length,  when  their  breath's  end 
was  come  about, 


366 


AN  ORIENTAL   APOLOGUE. 


And  both  could,  now  and   then,  just 
gasp  "impostor  !  " 
Holding  their  heads  thrust  menacing- 
ly out, 
As  staggering  cocks  keep  up  their  fight- 
ing posture, 
The  stranger  smiled  and  said,  "  Be- 
yond a  doubt 
'T  is   fortunate,    my  friend^,   that  you 
have  lost  your 
United  parts  of  speech,  or  it  had  been 
Impossible  for  me  to  get  between. 


"Produce  !  says  Nature, — what  have 

you  produced  ? 
A  new  strait-waistcoat  for  the  human 

mind ; 
Are  you  not  limbed,  nerved,  jointed, 

arteried,  juiced 
As  other  men?  yet,  faithless  to  your 

kind, 
Rather  like  noxious  insects  you  are 

used 
To  puncture  life's  fair  fruit,  beneath 

the  rind 
Laying  your  creed-eggs  whence   in 

time  there  spring 
Consumers  new  to  eat  and  buzz  and 

sting. 

XXI. 

"  Work !    you    have  no  conception 

how  't  will  sweeten 
Your  views  of  Life  and  Nature,  God 

and  Man  ; 
Had  you  been  forced  to  earn  what 

you  have  eaten, 
Your  heaven  had  shown  a  less  dyspep- 
tic plan  ; 
At  present  your  whole  function  is  to 

eat  ten 
And  talk  ten  times  as  rapidly  as  you 

can  ; 
Were  your  shape  true  to  cosmogonic 

laws, 
You  would  be  nothing  but  a  pair  of 

jaws. 

XXII. 

_ "  Of  all  the  useless  beings  in  creation 
The  earth  could  spare  most  easily  you 
bakers 


Of  little  clay  gods,  formed  in  shape 

and  fashion 
Precisely  in  the  image  of  their  makers  ; 
Why,  it  would  almost  move  a  saint 

to  passion, 
To  see  these  blind  and  deaf,  the  hourly 

breakers 
Of  God's  own  image  in  their  brother 

men, 
Set  themselves  up  to  tell  the  how, 

where,  when, 

XXIII. 

"  Of   God's  existence;   one's  diges- 
tion 's  worse  — 
So  makes  a  god  of  vengeance  and  of 
blood ; 
Another,  —  but  no  matter,  they  re- 
verse 
Creation's  plan,  out  of  their  own  vile 
mud 
Pat  up  a  god,  and  bum,  drown,  hang, 
or  curse 
Whoever  worships  not ;  each  keeps  his 
stud 
Of  texts  which  wait  with  saddle  on 

and  bridle 
To  hunt  down  atheists  to  their  ugly 
idol. 

XXIV. 

"  This,  I  perceive,  has  been  your  oc- 
cupation ; 
You  should  have  been  more  usefully 
employed ; 
All  men  are  bound  to  earn  their  daily 
ration, 
Where   States  make  not  that  primal 
contract  void 
By  cramps  and  limits  ;  simple  devas- 
tation 
Is  the  worm's  task,  and  what  he  has 
destroyed 
His  monument ;    creating  is  man's 

work 
And  that,  too,  something  more  than 
mist  and  murk." 


So  having  said,  the  youth  was  seen 
no  more, 
And  straightway  our  sage  Brahmin,  the 
philosopher, 


AN  ORIENTAL   APOLOGUE. 


367 


Cried,  "  That  was  aimed  at  thee,  thou 

endless  bore, 
Idle  and  useless  as  the  growth  of  moss 

over 
A   rotting  tree-trunk  !  "     "I    would 

square  that  score 
Full  soon,"  replied  the  Dervise,  "could 

I  cross  over 
And  catch  thee  by  the  beard.     Thy 

nails  I'd  trim 
And  make  thee  work,  as  was  advised 

by  him." 

XXVI. 

"  Work  ?    Am  I  not  at  work  from 

morn  till  night 
Sounding  the  deeps  of  oracles  umbilical 
Which    for    man's    guidance    never 

come  to  light, 
With  all  their  various  aptitudes,  until 

1  call?" 
"  And  I,  do  I  not  twirl  from  left  to 

right 
For  conscience'  sake  ?  Is  that  no  work  ? 

Thou  silly  gull, 
He  had  thee  in  his  eye  ;  't  was  Ga- 
briel 
Sent  to  reward  my  faith,  I  know  him 

well." 

XXVII. 
"'T  was  Vishnu,  thou  vile  whirligig  !" 
and  so 
The  good  old  quarrel  was  begun  anew  ; 
One  would  have  sworn  the  sky  was 
black  as  sloe, 
Had  but  the  other  dared  to  call  it  blue  ; 
Nor  were  the  followers  who  fed  them 
slow 
To  treat  each  other  with  their  curses, 
too, 
Each  hating  t'other  (moves  it  tears 

or  laughter  ?) 
Because  he  thought  him  sure  of  hell 
hereafter. 

XXVIII. 

At  last  some  genius  built  a  bridge  of 
boats 
Over  the  stream,  and  Ahmed's  zealots 
filed 
Across,  upon  a  mission  to  (cut  throats 
And)  spread   religion  pure  and   unde- 
filed; 


They  sowed  the  propagandist's  wild- 
est oats, 
Cutting   off  all,  down    to  the   smallest 
child, 

And   came   back,  giving   thanks   for 
such  fat  mercies, 

To  find  their  harvest  gone  past  pray- 
ers or  curses. 


All  gone  except  their  saint's  religious 
hops, 
Which  he  kept  up  with  more  than  com« 
mon  flourish ; 
But  these,  however  satisfying  crops 
For  the  inner  man,  were  not  enough  to 
nourish 
The  body  politic,  which  quickly  drops 
Reserve    in    such   sad  junctures,  and 
turns  currish  ; 
So  Ahmed  soon  got  cursed  for  all  the 

famine 
Where'er    the  popular  voice  could 
edge  a  damn  in, 


At  first  he  pledged  a  miracle  quite 
boldly, 
And,  for  a  day  or  two,   they  growled 
and  waited  ; 
But,  finding  that  this  kind  of  manna 
coldly 
Sat  on  their  stomachs,  they  erelong  be- 
rated 
The  saint  for  still  persisting  in  that 
old  lie, 
Till  soon  the  whole  machine  of  saint- 
ship  grated, 
Ran     slow,    creaked,   stopped,   and, 

wishing  him  in  Tophet, 
They  gathered   strength   enough   to 
stone  the  prophet. 


Some   stronger   ones  contrived   (by 
eating  leather, 
Their  weaker  friends,  and  one  thing  or 
another) 
The  winter   months   of   scarcity    to 
weather ; 
Among    these    was    the    late    saint's 
younger  brother, 
Who,  in  the  spring,  collecting  them 
together, 


368 


AN  ORIENTAL  APOLOGUE. 


Persuaded  them    that  Ahmed's  holy 

pother 
Had  wrought  in  their  behalf,  and  that 

the  place 
Of  Saint  should  be  continued  to  his 

race. 


Accordingly,  't  was  settled  on  the  spot 
That  Allah  favored  that  peculiar  breed ; 


Beside,  as  all  were  satisfied,  't  would 
not 
Be  quite  respectable  to  have  the  need 

Of  public  spiritual  food  forgot ; 
And  so  the  tribe,  with  proper  forms  de- 
creed 

That  he,  and,  failing  him,  his  next 
of  kin, 

Forever  for  the  people's  good  should 
spin. 


UNDER    THE    WILLOWS 


AND 


OTHER    POEMS. 


UNDER    THE    WILLOWS. 


ffO  CHARLES  ELIOT  NORTON. 

AGRO   DOLCE. 

The  wind  is  roistering  out  of  doors, 
My  windows    shake   and  my  chimney 

roars ; 
My  Elmwood  chimneys  seem  crooning 

to  me, 
As  of  old,  in  their  moody,  minor  key, 
And  out  of  the  past  the   hoarse  wind 

blows, 
As  I  sit  in  my  arm-chair,  and  toast  my 

toes. 

"  Ho  !  ho  !  nine-and- forty,"  they  seem 

to  sing, 
"  We  saw  you  a  little  toddling  thing. 
We  knew  you  child  and  youth  and  man, 
A  wonderful  fellow  to  dream  and  plan, 
With  a  great  thing  always  to  come, — 

who  knows? 
Well,  well  !  't  is  some  comfort  to  toast 

one's  toes. 

"  How  many  times  have  you  sat  at  gaze 
Till  the  mouldering  fire  forgot  to  blaze, 
Shaping  among  the  whimsical  coals 
Fancies  and  figures  and  shining  goals  ! 
What  matters  the   ashes    that    cover 

those? 
While  hickory  lasts  you  can  toast  your 

toes. 

"  O  dream-ship-builder !  where  are  they 

all, 
Your  grand  three-deckers,  deep-chested 

and  tall, 
That   should   crush   the  waves    under 

canvas  piles, 
And   anchor  at  last  by  the   Fortunate 

Isles? 
There  's  gray  in  your  beard,  the  years 

turn  foes, 


While  you  muse  in  your  arm-chair  and 
toast  your  toes." 

I  sit  and  dream  that  I  hear,  as  of  yore, 

My  Elmwood  chimneys'  deep-throated 
roar  ; 

If  much  be  gone,  there  is  much  re- 
mains ; 

By  the  embers  of  loss  I  count  my 
gains, 

You  and  yours  with  the  best,  till  the 
old  hope  glows 

In  the  fanciful  flame,  as  I  toast  my  toes. 

Instead    of  a  fleet    of  broad-browed 

ships, 
To  send  a  child's  armada  of  chips  ! 
Instead  of  the  great  guns,  tier  on  tier, 
A  freight  of  pebbles  and  grass-blades 

sere  ! 
"  Well,  maybe  more  love  wi*h  the  less 

gift  goes," 
I  growl,  as,  half  moody,  I  toast  my  t^es. 


UNDER  THE  WILLOWS. 

Frank-hearted  hostess  of  the  field 

and  wood, 
Gypsy,  whose  roof  is  every  spreading 

tree, 
June  is  the  pearl  of  our  New  England 

year. 
Still  a  surprisal,  though  expected  long, 
Her  coming  startles.     Long  she  lies  in 

wait, 
Makes  many  a  feint,  peeps  forth,  draws 

coyly  back, 
Then,  from  some  southern  ambush  in 

the  sky, 
With  one  great  gush  of  blossom  storms 

the  world. 
A  week  ago  the  sparrow  was  divine  ; 


372 


UNDER    THE    WILLOWS. 


The  bluebird,  shifting  his  light  load  of 

song 
From  post  to  post  along  the  cheerless 

fence, 
Was  as  a  rhymer  ere  the  poet  come  ; 
But  now,  O  rapture  !  sunshine  winged 

and  voiced, 
Pipe  blown  through  by  the  warm  wild 

breath  of  the  West 
Shepherding  his  soft  droves  of  fleecy 

cloud, 
Gladness  of  woods,  skies,  waters,  all  in 

one, 
The  bobolink  has  come,  and,  like  the 

soul 
Of  the  sweet  season  vocal  in  a  bird, 
Gurgles  in  ecstasy  we  know  not  what 
Save  June  !    Dear  June  1    Now  God 

be  praised  for  June. 

May  is  a  pious  fraud  of  the  almanac, 
A  ghastly  parody  of  real  Spring 
Shaped  out  of  snow  and  breathed  with 

eastern  wind ; 
Or  if,  o'er-confident,  she  trust  the  date, 
And,  with  her  handful  of  anemones, 
Herself  as  shivery,  steal  into  the  sun, 
The  season  need  but  turn  his  hourglass 

round, 
And  Winter  suddenly,  like  crazy  Lear, 
Reels  back,  and  brings  the  dead  May 

in  his  arms, 
Her  budding  breasts  and  wan  dislustred 

front 
With   frosty  streaks  and   drifts  of  his 

white  beard 
All  overblown.     Then,  warmly  walled 

with  books, 
While  my  wood-fire  supplies  the  sun's 

defect, 
Whispering     old    forest-sagas     in    its 

dreams, 
I  take  my  May  down  from  the  happy 

shelf 
Where   perch   the  world's  rare  song- 
birds in  a  row, 
Waiting  my  choice  to  open  with  full 

breast, 
And  beg  an  alms  of  spring-time,  ne'er 

denied 
In-doors   by   vernal    Chaucer,    whose 

fresh  woods 
Throb  thick  with  merle  and  mavis  all 

the  yea*. 


July  breathes  hot,  sallows  the  crispy 
fields, 

Curls  up  the  wan  leaves  of  the  lilac- 
hedge, 

And  every  eve  cheats  us  with  show  of 
clouds 

That  braze  the  horizon's  western  rim, 
or  hang 

Motionless,  with  heaped  canvas  droop- 
ing idly, 

Like  a  dim  fleet  by  starving  men  be- 
sieged, 

Conjectured  half,  and  half  descried 
afar, 

Helpless  of  wind,  and  seeming  to  slip 

back  * 

Adown  the  smooth  curve  of  the  oily 
sea. 

But  June  is  full  of  invitations  sweet, 
Forth   from  the  chimney's  yawn   and 

thrice-read  tomes 
To  leisurely  delights  and  sauntering 

thoughts 
That  brook  no  ceiling  narrower  than  the 

blue. 
The    cherry,    drest   for  bridal,   at   my 

pane 
Brushes,  then  listens,  Will  he  come  ? 

The  bee, 
All  dusty  as  a  miller,  takes  his  toll 
Of  powdery  gold,  and  grumbles.    What 

a  day 
To  sun  me  and  do  nothing !     Nay,  I 

think 
Merely  to  bask  and  ripen  is  sometimes 
The    student's    wiser    business ;    the 

brain 
That  forages  all  climes  to  line  its  cells, 
Ranging  both  worlds  on  lightest  wings 

of  wish, 
Will  not  distil  the  juices  it  has  sucked 
To    the   sweet  substance    of  pellucid 

thought, 
Except   for  him  who  hath   the  secret 

learned 
To  mix  his  blood  with  sunshine,  and  to 

take 
The  winds   into   his  pulses.      Hush  J 

'T  is  he  ! 
My  oriole,  my  glance  of  summer  fire, 
Is  come  at  last,  and,  ever  on  the  watch, 
Twitches  the  pack-thread  I  had  lightly 

wound 


UNDER    THE    WILLOWS. 


373 


About  the  bough  to  help  his  housekeep- 
ing. — 
Twitches  and  scouts  by  turns,  blessing 

his  luck, 
Yet  fearing  me  who  laid  it  in  his  way, 
Nor,  more  than  wiser  we  in  our  affairs, 
Divines  the  providence  that  hides  and 

helps. 
Heave,  ho  I    Heave,  ho  !  he  whistles 

as  the  twine 
Slackens  its  hold  ;  once  more,  now  ! 

and  a  flash 
Lightens    across   the  sunlight  to  the 

elm 
Where  his  mate  dangles  at  her  cup  of 

felt. 
Nor  all  his  booty  is  the  thread  ;   he 

trails 
My  loosened  thought  with  it  along  the 

air, 
And  I  must  follow,  would  I  ever  find 
The  inward  rhyme  to  all  this  wealth  of 

life. 

I  care  not  how  men  trace  their  ances- 
try. 

To  ape  or  Adam  ;  let  them  please  their 
whim  ; 

But  I  in  June  am  midway  to  believe 

A  tree  among  my  far  progenitors, 

Such  sympathy  is  mine  with  all  the 
race, 

Such  mutual  recognition  vaguely  sweet 

There  is  between  us.  Surely  there  are 
times 

When  they  consent  to  own  me  of  their 
kin, 

And  condescend  to  me,  and  call  me 
cousin, 

Murmuring  faint  lullabies  of  eldest 
time, 

Forgotten,  and  yet  dumbly  felt  with 
thrills 

Moving  the  lips,  though  fruitless  of  the 
words. 

And  I  have  many  a  lifelong  leafy 
friend, 

Never  estranged  nor  careful  of  my 
soul, 

That  knows  I  hate  the  axe,  and  wel- 
comes me 

Within  his  tent  as  if  I  were  a  bird, 

Or  other  free  companion  of  the  earth, 

Yet  undegenerate  to  the  shifts  of  men. 


Among  them   one,  an  ancient  willow, 

spreads 
Eight  balanced  limbs,  springing  at  once 

all  round 
His  deep-ridged   trunk   with    upward 

slant  diverse, 
In  outline  like  enormous  beaker,  fit 
For  hand  of  Jotun,  where  'mid   snow 

and  mist 
He  holds  unwieldly  revel.     This  tree, 

spared, 
I  know  not  by  what  grace,  —  for  in  the 

blood 
Of  our  New  World  subduers  lingers  yet 
Hereditary  feud  with  trees,  they  being 
(They    and    the    red-man    most)    our 

fathers'  foes,  — 
Is  one  of  six,  a  willow  Pleiades, 
The  seventh  fallen,  that  lean  along  the 

brink 
Where  the  steep  upland  dips  into  the 

marsh, 
Their  roots,  like  molten  metal  cooled 

in  flowing, 
Stiffened  in  coils  and  runnels  down  the 

bank. 
The  friend  of  all  the  winds,  wide-armed 

he  towers 
And  glints  his  steely  aglets  in  the  sun, 
Or  whitens  fitfully  with  sudden  bloom 
Of  leaves  breeze-lifted,  much  as  when 

a  shoal 
Of  devious  minnows  wheel  from  where 

a  pike 
Lurks  balanced   'neath   the'  lily-pads, 

and  whirl 
A  rood  of  silver  bellies  to  the  day. 

Alas  !  no  acorn  from  the  British  oak 

'Neath  which  slim  fairies  tripping 
wrought  those  rings 

Of  greenest  emerald,  wherewith  fireside 
life 

Did  with  the  invisible  spirit  of  Nature 
wed, 

Was  ever  planted  here  !  No  darnel 
fancy 

Might  choke  one  useful  blade  in  Puri- 
tan fields ; 

With  horn  and  hoof  the  good  old  Devil 
came, 

The  witch's  broomstick  was  not  contra- 
band, 

But  alj  that  superstition  had  of  fair. 


374 


UNDER    THE    WILLOWS. 


Or  piety  of  native  sweet,  was  doomed. 
And  if  there  be  who  nurse  unholy  faiths, 
Fearing  their  god  as  if  he  were  a  wolf 
That   snuffed  round   every  home   and 

was  not  seen, 
There  should  be   some  to  watch  and 

keep  alive 
All  beautiful  beliefs.      And  such  was 

that,  — 
By  solitary  shepherd  first  surmisea 
Under  Thessalian  oaks,  loved  by  some 

maid 
Of  royal   stirp,   that   silent  came  and 

vanished, 
As  near  her  nest  the  hermit  thrush,  nor 

dared 
Confess    a   mortal   name, — that    faith 

which  gave 
A  Hamadryad  to  each  tree  ;  and  I 
Will  hold   it  true   that  in   this  willow 

dwells 
The    open-handed    spirit,    frank    and 

blithe, 
Of  ancient  Hospitality,  long  since, 
With  ceremonious  thrift,  bowed  out  of 

doors. 

In  June  't  is  good  to  lie  beneath  a  tree 

While  the  blithe  season  comforts  every 
sense, 

Steeps  all  the  brain  in  rest,  and  heals 
the  heart, 

Brimming  it  o'er  with  sweetness  una- 
wares, 

Fragrant  and  silent  as  that  rosy  snow 

Wherewith  thepitying  apple-tree  fills  up 

And  tenderly  lines  some  last-year  rob- 
in's nest. 

There  muse  I  of  old  times,  old  hopes, 
old  friends, — 

Old  friends !  The  writing  of  those 
words  has  borne 

My  fancy  backward  to  the  gracious  past, 

The  generous  past,  when  all  was  pos- 
sible, 

For  all  was  then  untried  ;  the  years  be- 
tween 

Have  taught  some  sweet,  some  bitter 
lessons,  none 

Wiser  than  this,  —  to  spend  in  all  things 
else, 

But  of  old  friends  to  be  most  miserly. 

Each  year  to  ancient  friendships  adds 
a  ring, 


As  to  an  oak,  and  precious  more  and 

more, 
Without  deservingness  or  help  of  ours, 
They  grow,  and,  silent,  wider  spread, 

each  year, 
Their  unbought  ring  of  shelter  or  of 

shade. 
Sacred  to  me  the  lichens  on  the  bark, 
Which  Nature's  milliners  would  scrape 

away ; 
Most  dear  and  sacred  every  withered 

limb! 
'T  is  good  to  set  them  early,  for  our 

faith 
Pines  as  we  age,  and,  after  wrinkles 

come, 
Few  plant,  but  water  dead  ones  with 

vain  tears. 

This  willow  is  as  old  to  me  as  life.; 
And  under  it  full  often  have  I  stretched, 
Feeling  the   warm   earth  like  a  thing 

alive, 
And  gathering  virtue  in  at  every  pore 
Till    it    possessed    me    wholly,     and 

thought  ceased, 
Or    was    transfused    in   something    to 

which  thought 
Is  coarse  and  dull  of  sense.     Myself 

was  lost, 
Gone  from  me  like  an  ache,  and  what 

remained 
Became  a  part  of  the  universal  joy. 
My  soul  went  forth,  and,  mingling  with 

the  tree, 
Danced  in  the  leaves ;   or,  floating  in 

the  cloud, 
Saw  its  white  double  in  the  stream  be- 
low ; 
Or  else,  sublimed  to  purer  ecstasy, 
Dilated  in  the  broad  blue  over  all. 
I  was  the  wind  that  dappled  the  lush 

grass, 
The  tide  that  crept  with  coolness  to  its 

roots, 
The  thin-winged  swallow  skating  on  the 

air ; 
The  life  that  gladdened  everything  was 

mine. 
Was  I  then  truly  all  that  I  beheld? 
Or  is  this  stream  of  being  but  a  glass 
Where  the  mind  sees  its  visionary  self. 
As,  when  the  kingfisher  flits  o'er  his 

bay, 


UNDER    THE    WILLOWS. 


375 


Across  the  river's  hollow  heaven  below 
His    picture   flits, — another,    yet    the 

same  ? 
But  suddenly  the  sound  of  human  voice 
Or  footfall,   like   the   drop  a  chemist 

pours, 
Doth  in  opacous  cloud  precipitate 
The  consciousness  that  seemed  but  now 

dissolved 
Into  an  essence  rarer  than  its  own, 
And  I  am  narrowed  to  myself  oncemore. 

For  here  not  long  is  solitude  secure, 
Nor  Fantasy  left  vacant  to  her  spell. 
Here,   sometimes,   in  this  paradise  of 

shade, 
Rippled  with  western  winds,  the  dusty 

Tramp, 
Seeing  the  treeless  causey  burn  beyond, 
Halts  to  unroll  his  bundle  of  strange 

food 
And  munch  an  unearned  meal.     I  can- 
not help 
Liking  this  creature,  lavish  Summer's 

bedesman, 
Who  from  the  almshouse  steals  when 

nights  grow  warm, 
Himself  his  large  estate  and  only  charge, 
To  be  the  guest  of  haystack  or  of  hedge, 
Nobly  superior  to  the  household  gear 
That  forfeits  us  our  privilege  of  nature. 
I  bait  him  with  my  match-box  and  my 

pouch, 
Nor  grudge  the  uncostly  sympathy  of 

smoke. 
His  equal  now,  divinely  unemployed. 
Some  smack  of  Robin  Hood  is  in  the 

man, 
Some   secret  league   with   wild  wood- 
wandering  things ; 
He  is  our  ragged  Duke,   our  barefoot 

Earl, 
By  right  of  birth  exonerate  from  toil, 
Who  levies  rent  from  us  his  tenants  all, 
And  serves  the  state  by  merely  being. 

Here 
The  Scissors-grinder,  pausing,  doffs  his 

hat, 
And  lets  the  kind  breeze,  with  its  deli- 
cate fan, 
Winnow  the  heat   from  out  his  dank 

gray  hair,  — 
A    grimy  Ulysses,   a    much-wandered 
man, 


Whose  feet  are  known  to  all  the  popu- 
lous ways, 
And  many  men  and  manners  he  hath 

seen, 
Not  without  fruit  of  solitary  thought. 
He,  as  the  habit  is  of  lonely  men, — 
Unused  to  try  the  temper  of  their  mind 
In  fence  with  others,  —  positive  and  shy, 
Yet   knows   to   put   an  edge  upon  his 

speech, 
Pithily  Saxon  in  unwilling  talk. 
Him   I   entrap  with  my  long-suffering 

knife, 
And,  while  its  poor  blade  hums  away  in 

sparks, 
Sharpen  my  wit  upon  his  gritty  mind, 
In  motion  set  obsequious  to  his  wheel, 
And  in  its  quality  not  much  unlike. 

Nor  wants  my  tree  more  punctual  vis- 

itors. 
The  children,  they  whoare  the  only  rich, 
Creating  for  the  moment,  and  possessing 
Whate'er   they   choose   to  feign, — for 

still  with  them 
Kind  Fancy  plays  the  fairy  godmother. 
Strewing  their  lives  with  cheap  material 
For  winged  horses  and  Aladdin's  lamps, 
Pure   elfin-gold,   by   manhood's   touch 

profane 
To   dead   leaves   disenchanted, — long 

ago 
Between  the  branches  of  the  tree  fixed 

seats, 
Making  an  o'erturned  box  their  table. 

Oft 
The   shrilling   girls    sit    here   between 

school  hours, 
And  play  at  What 's  my  thought  like  ? 

while  the  boys, 
With  whom  the  age  chivalric  ever  bides, 
Pricked  on  by  knightly  spur  of  female 

eyes, 
Climb   high   to    swing    and    shout   on 

perilous  boughs, 
Or,  from  the  willow's  armory  equipped 
With    musket    dumb,    green    banner, 

edgeless  sword, 
Make  good  the  rampart  of  their  tree- 
redoubt 
•Gainst  eager  British  storming  from  be- 
low, 
And  keep  alive  the  tale  of  Bunker's 

Hill. 


376 


UNDER    THE    WILLOWS. 


Here,  too,  the  men  that  mend  our  vil- 
lage ways, 

Vexing  Mc Adam's  ghost  with  pounded 
slate, 

Their  nooning  take ;   much  noisy  talk 
they  spend 

On  horses  and  their  ills  ;  and,  as  John 
Bull 

Tells  of  Lord  This  or  That,  who  was 
his  friend, 

So  these  make  boast  of  intimacies  long 

With  famous  teams,  and  add  large  esti- 
mates, 

By  competition  swelled  from  mouth  to 
mouth, 

Of  how  much  they  could  draw,  till  one, 
ill  pleased 

To  have  his  legend  overbid,  retorts  : 

"  You  take  and  stretch  truck-horses  in 
a  string 

From  here  to   Long  Wharf  end,   one 
thing  I  know, 

Not  heavy  neither,  they  could  never 
draw,  — 

Ensign's  long  bow  !  "     Then  laughter 
loud  and  long. 

So  they  in  their  leaf-shadowed  micro- 
cosm 

Image  the  larger  world  ;  for  wheresoe'er 

Ten  men  are  gathered,  the  observant 
eye 

Will  find  mankind  in  little,  as  the  stars 

Glide  up  and  set,  and  all  the  heavens 
revolve 

In  the  small  welkin  of  a  drop  of  dew. 

I  love  to  enter  pleasure  by  a  postern, 
Not  the  broad  popular  gate  that  gulps 

the  mob ; 
To  find  my  theatres  in  roadside  nooks, 
Where  men  are  actors,  and  suspect  it 

not ; 
Where  Nature  all   unconscious  works 

her  will, 
And  every  passion  moves  with  human 

gait, 
Unhampered  by  the  buskin  or  the  train. 
Hating  the  ferowd,  where  we  gregarious 

men 
Lead  lonely  lives,  I  love  society, 
Nor  seldom  find  the  best  with  simple 

souls 
Unswerved  by  culture  from  their  native 

bent, 


The  ground  we  meet  on  being  primal 

man 
And  nearer  the  deep  bases  of  our  lives. 

But  O,  half  heavenly,  earthly  half,  my 

soul, 
Canst  thou  from  those  late  ecstasies 

descend, 
Thy  lips  still  wet  with  the  miraculous 

wine 
That   transubstantiates    all   thy  baser 

stuff 
To  such  divinity  that  soul  and  sense, 
Once  more  commingled  in  their  source, 

are  lost,  — 
Canst  thou  descend  to  quench  a  vulgar 

thirst 
With  the  mere  dregs  and  rinsings   of 

the  world? 
Well,  if  my  nature  find  her  pleasure  so, 
I  am  content,  nor  need  to  blush  ;  I  take 
My  little  gift  of  being  clean  from  God, 
Not  haggling  for  a  better,  holding  it 
Good  as  was  ever  any  in  the  world, 
My  days  as  good  and  full  of  miracle. 
I  pluck  my  nutriment  from  any  bush, 
Finding  out  poison  as  the  first  men  did 
By  tasting  and  then  suffering,  if  I  must. 
Sometimes  my  bush  burns,  and  some- 
times it  is 
A  leafless  wilding  shivering  by  the  wall ; 
Butlhaveknownwhen  winterbarberries 
Pricked  the  effeminate  palate  with  sur- 
prise 
Of  savor  whose  mere  harshness  seemed 
divine. 

O,  benediction  of  the  higher  mood 

And  human-kindness  of  the  lower  !  for 
both 

I  will  be  grateful  while  I  live,  nor  ques- 
tion 

The  wisdom  that  hath  made  us  what 
we  are, 

With  such  large  range  as  from  the  ale- 
house bench 

Can  reach  the  stars  and  be  with  both  at 
home. 

They  tell  us  we  have  fallen  on  prosy 
days, 

Condemned  to  glean  the  leavings  of 
earth's  feast 

Where  gods  and  heroes  took  delight  of 
old; 


UNDER    THE    IVILLOIVS. 


377 


But  though  our  lives,  moving  in  one 
dull  round 

Of  repetition  infinite,  become 

Stale  as  a  newspaper  once  read,  and 
though 

History  herself,  seen  in  her  workshop, 
seem 

To  have  lost  the  art  that  dyed  those 
glorious  panes, 

Rich  with  memorial  shapes  of  saint  and 
sage, 

That  pave  with  splendor  the  Past's 
dusky  aisles,  — 

Panes  that  enchant  the  light  of  common 
day 

With  colors  costly  as  the  blood  of  kings, 

Until  it  edge  our  thought  with  hues 
ideal,  — 

Yet  while  the  world  is  left,  while  nature 
lasts 

And  man  the  best  of  nature,  there  shall 
be 

Somewhere  contentment  for  these  hu- 
man hearts, 

Some  freshness,  some  unused  material 

For  wonder  and  for  song.  I  lose  my- 
self 

In  other  ways  where  solemn  guide- 
posts  sav, 

This  way  to  Knowledge,  This  way  to 
Repose, 

But  here,  here  only,  I  am  ne'er  be- 
trayed, 

For  every  by-path  leads  me  to  my  love. 

God's  passionless  reformers,  influences, 
That  purify  and  heal  and  are  not  seen, 
Shall  man  say  whence   your  virtue  is, 

or  how 
Ye  make  medicinal  the  wayside  weed  ? 
I  know  that   sunshine,  through   what- 
ever rift 
How  shaped  it  matters  not,  upon   my 

walls 
Paints  discs  as  perfect-rounded  as  its 

source, 
And,  like  its  antitype,  the  ray  divine, 
However  finding  entrance,  perfect  still, 
Repeats  the  image  unimpaired  of  God. 

We,   who  by  shipwreck  only  find  the 

shores 
Of  divine  wisdom,  can  but  kneel  at 

first; 


Can  but  exult  to  feel  beneath  our  feet, 
That   long  stretched   vainly  down  the 

yielding  deeps, 
The  shock  and  sustenance  of  solid  earth; 
Inland  afar  we  see  what  temples  gleam 
Through  immemorial  stems   of  sacred 

groves, 
And    we    conjecture     shining    shapes 

therein  ; 
Yet  for  a  space  we  love  to  wonder  here 
Among  the  shells  and  sea-weed  of  the 

beach. 

So  mused  I  once  within  my  willow- tent 
One   brave    June   morning,    when   the 

bluff  northwest, 
Thrusting  aside  a  dank  and  snuffling 

day 
That  made  us  bitter  at  our  neighbors' 

sins, 
Brimmed  the  great  cup  of  heaven  with 

sparkling  cheer 
And  roared  a  lusty  stave  ;  the  sliding 

Charles, 
Blue  toward  the  west,  and  bluer  and 

m«»re  blue, 
Living    and    lustrous    as    a  woman's 

eyes 
Look  once   and  look   no   more,   with 

southward  curve 
Ran  crinkling  sunniness,  like  Helen's 

hair 
Glimpsed    in    Elysium,    insubstantial 

gold; 
From    blossom-clouded    orchards,    far 

away 
The  bobolink  tinkled  ;  the  deep  mead- 
ows flowed 
With  multitudinous  pulse  of  light  and 

shade 
Against    the    bases    of    the    southern 

hills, 
While  here  and  there  a  drowsy  island 

rick 
Slept  and  its  shadow  slept ;  the  wood- 
en bridge 
Thundered,    and  then  was  silent  ;  on 

the  roofs 
The  sun-warped  shingles  rippled  with 

the  heat  ; 
Summer  on  field  and  hill,  in  heart  and 

brain, 
All  life  washed  clean  in  this  high  tide 

of  June. 


V8 


VARA. 


DARA. 

When  Persia's  sceptre  trembled  in  a 

hand 
Wilted  with  harem-heats,  and  all  the 

land 
Was  hovered  over  by  those  vulture  ills 
That  snuff  decaying  empire  from  afar, 
Then,  with  a  nature  balanced  as  a  star, 
Dara  arose,  a  shepherd  of  the  hills. 

He  who  had  governed  fleecy  subjects 

well 
Made  his  own  village  by  the  selfsame 

spell 
Secure  and  quiet  as  a  guarded  fold  ; 
Then,  gathering  strength  by  slow  and 

wise  degrees 
Under  his  sway,  to  neighbor  villages 
Order  returned,  and  faith   and  justice 

old. 

Now  when  it  fortuned  that  a  king  more 
wise 

Endued  the  realm  with  brain  and  hands 
and  eyes, 

He  sought  on  every  side  men  brave 
and  just  ; 

And  having  heard  our  mountain  shep- 
herd's praise, 

How  he  refilled  the  mould  of  elder 
days, 

To  Dara  gave  a  satrapy  in  trust. 

So  Dara  shepherded  a  province  wide, 
Nor  in  his  viceroy's  sceptre  took  more 

pride 
Than  in  his  crook  before  ;   but   envy 

finds 
More  food  in  cities  than  on  mountains 

bare  ; 
And  the  frank  sun  of  natures  clear  and 

rare 
Breeds  poisonous  fogs  in  low  and  mar- 

ish  minds. 

Soon  it  was  hissed  into  the  royal  ear, 
That,  though  wise  Dara's  province,  year 

by  year, 
Like  a  great  sponge,  sucked  wealth  and 

plenty  up, 
Yet,  when  he  squeezed  it  at  the  king's 

behest, 


Some  yellow  drops,  morp  "fch  than  all 

the  rest. 
Went  to  the  filling  of  his  private  cup. 

For  proof,  they  said,  that,  wheresoe'er 

he  went, 
A    chest,   beneath  whose   weight    the 

camel  bent, 
Went  with  him  ;  and  no  mortal  eye  had 

seen 
What   was  therein,  save   only  Dara's 

own  ; 
But,  when  't  was  opened,  all  his  tent 

was  known 
To  glow  and  lighten  with  heaped  jewels' 

sheen. 

The  King  set  forth  for  Dara's  province 

straight  ; 
There,    as   was   fit,  outside  the  city's 

gate, 
The   viceroy   met   him  with  a   stately 

train, 
And  there,  with  archers  circled,  close 

at  hand, 
A  camel  with   the  chest  was  seen   to 

stand  : 
The  King's  brow  reddened,  for  the  guilt 

was  plain. 

"  Open  me  here,"  he  cried,  "  this 
treasure-chest !  " 

'T  was  done  ;  and  only  a  worn  shep- 
herd's vest 

Was  found  therein.  Some  blushed  and 
hung  the  head  ; 

Not  Dara  ;  open  as  the  sky's  blue  roof 

He  stood,  and  "  O  my  lord,  behold  the 
proof 

That  I  was  faithful  to  my  trust,"  he 
said. 

"  To  govern  men,  lo  all  the  spell  I  had  ! 
My  soul  in  these  rude  vestments  ever 

clad 
Still  to  the  unstained  past  kept  true  and 

leal, 
Still  on  these  plains  could  breathe  her 

mountain  air, 
And   fortune's  heaviest   gifts  serenely 

bear, 
Which  bend  men  from  their  truth  and 

make  them  reel. 


■THE  FIRST  SNOW-FALL.— THE   SINGING  LEAVES.     379 


"  For  ruling  wisely  I  should  have  small 
skill, 

Were  I  not  lord  of  simple  Dara  still ; 

That  sceptre  kept,  I  could  not  lose  my 
way." 

Strange  dew  in  royal  eyes  grew  round 
and  bright, 

And  strained  "the  throbbing  lids;  be- 
fore 't  was  night 

Two  added  provinces  blest  Dara's 
sway. 


THE  FIRST  SNOW-FALL. 

The  snow  had  begun  in  the  gloaming, 

And  busily  all  the  night 
Had  been  heaping  field  and  highway 

With  a  silence  deep  and  white. 

Every  pine  and  fir  and  hemlock 
Wore  ermine  too  dear  for  an  earl, 

And  the  poorest  twig  on  the  elm-tree 
Was  ridged  inch  deep  with  pearl. 

From  sheds  new-roofed  with  Carrara 
Came  Chanticleer's  muffled  crow, 

The  stiff  rails  were  softened  to  swan's- 
down, 
And  still  fluttered  down  the  snow. 

I  stood  and  watched  by  the  window 
The  noiseless  work  of  the  sky, 

And  the  sudden  flurries  of  snow-birds, 
Like  brown  leaves  whirling  by. 

I  thought  of  a  mound  in  sweet  Auburn 
Where  a  little  headstone  stood  ; 

How  the  flakes  were  folding  it  gently, 
As  did  robins  the  babes  in  the  wood. 

Up  spoke  our  own  little  Mabel, 

Saying,    "  Father,     who     makes    it 
snow  ?" 

And  I  told  of  the  good  All-father 
Who  cares  for  us  here  below. 

Again  I  looked  at  the  snow-fall, 
And  thought  of  the  leaden  sky 

That  arched  o'er  our  first  great  sorrow, 
When   that  mound  was  heaped  so 
high. 


I  remembered  the  gradual  patience 
That  fell  from  that  cloud  like  snow, 

Flake  by  flake,  healing  and  hiding 
The  scar  of  our  deep-plunged  woe. 

And  again  to  the  child  I  whispered, 
"The  snow  that  husheth  all, 

Darling,  the  merciful  Father 
Alone  can  make  it  fall  1 " 

Then,  with  eyes  that  saw  not,  I  kissed 
her ; 
And   she,    kissing  back,    could   not 
know 
That  my  kiss  was  given  to  her  sister, 
Folded  close  under  deepening  snow. 


THE  SINGING  LEAVES. 


A     BALLAD. 


"  What  fairings  will  ye  that  I  bring  ?  " 
Said  the  King  to  his  daughters  three ; 

"  For  I  to  Vanity  Fair  am  boun, 
Now  say  what  shall  they  be  ?  " 

Then  up  and  spake  the  eldest  daughter, 

That  lady  tall  and  grand  : 
"  O,  bring   me   pearls   and    diamonds 
great, 

And  gold  rings  for  my  hand." 

Thereafter  spake  the  second  daughter, 
That  was  both  white  and  red  : 

"  For  me  bring   silks  that   will   stand 
alone. 
And  a  gold  comb  for  my  head." 

Then  came  the  turn  of  the  least  daugh- 
ter 
That  was  whiter  than  thistle-down, 

And  among  the  gold  of  her  blithesome 
hair 
Dim  shone  the  golden  crown. 

"  There  came  a  bird  this  morning, 
And  sang  'neath  my  bower  eaves, 

Till  I  dreamed,  as  his  music  made  me, 
'  Ask  thou  for  the  Singing  Leaves.'  " 


38° 


THE   SINGING  LEAVES. 


Then  the  brow  of  the  King  swelled 
crimson 

With  a  flush  of  angry  scorn  : 
"  Well  have  ye  spoken,  my  two  eldest, 

And  chosen  as  ye  were  born  ; 

"  But  she  like  a  thing  of  peasant  race, 

That  is  happy  binding  the  sheaves"  ; 

Then  he  saw  her  dead  mother  in  her 

face, 

And  said,    "  Thou  shalt    have    thy 

leaves." 

II. 
He  mounted  and  rode  three  days  and 
nights 
Till  he  came  to  Vanity  Fair, 
And  't  was  easy  to  buy  the  gems  and 
the  silk, 
But  no  Singing  Leaves  were  there. 

Then  deep  in  the  greenwood  rode  he, 

And  asked  of  every  tree, 
"  O,  if  you  have  ever  a  Singing  Leaf, 

I  pray  you  give  it  me  1 " 

But  the  trees  all  kept  their  counsel, 
And  never  a  word  said  they, 

Only  there  sighed  from  the  pine-tops 
A  music  of  seas  far  away. 

Only  the  pattering  aspen 

Made  a  sound  of  growing  rain, 

That  fell  ever  faster  and  faster, 
Then  faltered  to  silence  again. 

"  O,  where  shall  I  find  a  little  foot-page 
That  would  win,  both  hose  and  shoon, 

And  will  bring  to  me  the  Singing  Leaves 
If  they  grow  under  the  moon  ?  " 

Then  lightly  turned  him   Walter  the 
page, 

By  the  stirrup  as  he  ran  : 
"  Now  pledge  ye  me  the  truesome  word 

Of  a  king  and  gentleman, 

"That  you  will  give  me  the  first,  first 
thing 
You  meet  at  your  castle-gate, 
And  the  Princess  shall  get  the  Singing 
Leaves, 
Or  mine  be  a  traitor's  fat«." 


The  King's  head  dropt  upon  his  breast 

A  moment,  as  it  might  be  ; 
'T  will  be  my  dog,  he  thought,  and  said, 

"  My  faith  I  plight  to  thee." 

Then  Walter  took  from  next  his  heart 

A  packet  small  and  thin, 
"  Now  give  you  this  to  the  Princess 
Anne, 

The  Singing  Leaves  are  therein." 

III. 
As  the  King  rode  in  at  his  castle-gate, 

A  maiden  to  meet  him  ran, 
And  "  Welcome,  father ! "  she  laughed 
and  cried 
Together,  the  Princess  Anne. 

"  Lo,  here  the  Singing  Leaves,"  quoth 
he, 

"  And  woe,  but  they  cost  me  dear  !  " 
She  took  the  packet,  and  the  smile  . 

Deepened  down  beneath  the  tear. 

It  deepened  down  till  it  reached  he* 
heart, 

And  then  gushed  up  again, 
And  lighted  her  tears  as  the  sudden  sun 

Transfigures  the  summer  rain. 

And  the  first  Leaf,  when  it  was  opened, 
Sang  :  "  I  am  Walter  the  page, 

And  the  songs  I  sing  'neath  thy  window 
Are  my  only  heritage." 

And  the  second  Leaf  sang :  "  But  in 
the  land 

That  is  neither  on  earth  or  sea, 
My  lute  and  I  are  lords  of  more 

Than  thrice  this  kingdom's  fee." 

And  the  third  Leaf  sang,  "  Be  mine  ! 
Be  mine  ! " 

And  ever  it  sang,  "  Be  mine  ! " 
Then  sweeter  it  sang  and  ever  sweeter, 

And  said,  "  I  am  thine,  thine,  thine  !  " 

At  the  first  Leaf  she  grew  pale  enough, 
At  the  second  she  turned  aside, 

At  the  third,  't  was  as  if  a  1  i  1  v  flushed 
With  a  rose's  red  heart's  tide. 

"  Good  counsel  gave  the  bird,"  said  she, 
"  I  have  my  hope  thrice  o'er, 


SEA-WEED.-  THE  FINDING   OF   THE   LYRE. 


38i 


For  they  sing  to  my  very  heart,"  she 
said, 
"  And  it  sings  to  them  evermore." 

She  brought   to   him   her  beauty  and 
truth, 
But  and  broad  earldoms  three, 
And  he  made  her  queen  of  the  broader 
lands 
He  held  of  his  lute  in  fee. 


SEA-WEED. 

Not  always  unimpeded  can  I  pray, 
Nor,  pitying  saint,  thine  intercession 

claim  ; 
Too  closely  clings  the  burden  of  the 

day, 
And  all  the  mint  and  anise  that  I  pay 
But  swells  my  debt  and   deepens  my 

self-blame. 

Shall  I  less  patience  have  than  Thou, 

who  know 
That  Thou  revisit'st  all  who  wait  for 

thee, 
Nor  only  fill'st  the  unsounded  deeps 

below, 
But  dost  refresh  with  punctual  overflow 
The  rifts  where  unregarded  mosses  be  ? 

The  drooping  sea-weed  hears,  in  night 
abyssed, 

Far  and  more  far  the  wave's  receding 
shocks, 

Nor  doubts,  for  all  the  darkness  and 
the  mist, 

That  the  pale  shepherdess  will  keep  her 
tryst, 

And  shoreward  lead  again  her  foam- 
fleeced  flocks. 

For  the  same  wave  that  rims  the  Carib 
shore 

With  momentary  brede  of  pearl  and 
gold, 

Goes  hurrying  thence  to  gladden  with 
its  roar 

Lorn  weeds  bound  fast  on  rocks  of  Lab- 
rador, 

By  love  divine  on  one  sweet  errand 
rolled. 


And,  though  Thy  healing  waters  fa/ 
withdraw, 

I,  too,  can  wait  and  feed  on  hope  of 
Thee 

And  of  the  dear  recurrence  of  Thy  law 

Sure  that  the  parting  grace  that  morn- 
ing saw 

Abides  its  time  to  come  in  search  of  me. 


THE  FINDING  OF  THE  LYRE. 

There  lay  upon  the  ocean's  shore 
What  once  a  tortoise  served  to  cover. 
A  year  and  more,  with  rush  and  roar, 
The  surf  had  rolled  it  over, 
Had  played  with  it,  and  flung  it  by, 
As  wind  and  weather  might  decide  it, 
Then  tossed  it  high  where  sand-drifts 

dry 
Cheap  burial  might  provide  it. 

It  rested  there  to  bleach  or  tan, 

The   rains   had   soaked,  the   suns  had 

burned  it  ; 
With  many  a  ban  the  fisherman 
Had  stumbled  o'er  and  spurned  it : 
And  there  the  fisher-girl  would  stay, 
Conjecturing  with  her  brother 
How  in  their  play  the  poor  estray 
Might  serve  some  use  or  other. 

So  there  it  lay,  through  wet  and  dry, 
As  empty  as  the  last  new  sonnet, 
Till  by  and  by  came  Mercury, 
And,  having  mused  upon  it, 
"  Why,  here,"  cried  he,  "  the  thing  of 

things 
In  shape,  material,  and  dimension  ! 
Give  it  but  strings,  and,  lo,  it  sings, 
A  wonderful  invention ! " 

So  said,  so  done :  the  chords  he  strained, 
And,  as  his  fingers  o'er  them  hovered, 
The  shell  disdained  a  soul  had  gained, 
The  lyre  had  been  discovered. 
O  empty  world  that  round  us  lies, 
Dead  shell,  of   soul  and  thought  for- 
saken, 
Brought  we  but  eyes  like  Mercury's, 
In  thee  what  songs  should  waken  ! 


38*       NEW   YEAR'S  EVE.     1850.  —FOR   AN  AUTOGRAPH. 


NEW  YEAR'S  EVE.     1850. 

This  is  the  midnight  of  the  century, — 

hark! 
Through  aisle  and  arch  of  Godminster 

have  gone 
Twelve  throbs  that  tolled  the  zenith  of 

the  dark, 
And  mornward  now   the  starry  hands 

move  on  ; 
"  Mornward  1  "   the  angelic  watchers 

say, 
"  Passed  Is  the  sorest  trial ; 
No  plot  of  man  can  stay 
The  hand  upon  the  dial  ; 
Night  is  the  dark  stem  of  the  lily  Day." 

If  we,  who  watched  in  valleys  here  be- 
low, 

Toward  streaks,  misdeemed  of  morn, 
our  faces  turned 

When  volcan  glares  set  all  the  east 
aglow,  — 

We  are  not  poorer  that  we  wept  and 
yearned  ; 

Though  earth  swing  wide  from  God's 
intent, 

And  though  no  man  nor  nation 

Will  move  with  full  consent 

In  heavenly  gravitation, 

Yet  by  one  Sun  is  every  orbit  bent. 


FOR  AN  AUTOGRAPH. 

Though  old  the  thought  and  oft  ex- 

prest, 
'T  is  his  at  last  who  says  it  best,  — 
I  '11  try  my  fortune  with  the  rest. 

Life  is  a  leaf  of  paper  white 
Whereon  each  one  of  us  may  write 
His  word  or  two,  and  then  comes  night. 

"  Lo,  time  and  space  enough,"  we  cry, 
"  To  write  an  epic  !  "  so  we  try 
Our  nibs  upon  the  edge,  and  die. 

Muse  not  which  way  the  pen  to  hold, 
Luck  hates  th«  slow  and  loves  the  bold, 
Soon  come  the  darkness  and  the  cold. 


Greatly  begin  !  though  thou  have  time 
But  for  a  line,  be  that  sublime,  — 
Not  failure,  but  low  aim,  is  crime. 

Ah,  with  what  lofty  hope  we  came  I 
But  we  forget  it,  dream  of  fame, 
And  scrawl,  as  I  do  here,  a  name. 


AL  FRESCO. 

The  dandelions  and  buttercups 
Gild  all  the  lawn  \  the  drowsy  bee 
Stumbles  among  .he  clover-tops, 
And  summer  sweetens  all  but  me  : 
Away,  unfruitful  lore  of  books, 
For  whose  vain  idiom  we  reject 
The  soul's  more  native  dialect, 
Aliens  among  the  birds  and  brooks, 
Dull  to  interpret  or  conceive 
What  gospels  lost  the  woods  retrieve  I 
Away,  ye  critics,  city-bred, 
Who  set  man-traps  of  thus  and  so, 
And  in  the  first  man's  footsteps  tread, 
Like  those   who   toil   through   drifted 

snow  ! 
Away,  my  poets,  whose  sweet  spell 
Can  make  a  garden  of  a  cell  ! 
I  need  ye  not,  for  I  to-day 
Will  make  one  long  sweet  verse  of  play. 

Snap,    chord   of  manhood's    tenser 

strain  ! 
To-day  I  will  be  a  boy  again  ; 
The  mind's  pursuing  element, 
Like  a  bow  slackened  and  unbent, 
In  some  dark  corner  shall  be  leant. 
The  robin  sings,   as  of  old,  from  the 

limb! 
The  cat-bird  croons  in  the  lilac-bush  ! 
Through  the  dim  arbor,  himself  more 

dim, 
Silently  hops  the  hermit-thrush. 
The  withered  leaves  keep  dumb  for  him; 
The  irreverent  buccaneering  bee 
Hath  stormed  and  rifled  the  nunnery 
Of  the  lily,  and  scattered  the  sacred  floor 
With  haste-dropt  gold  from  shrine  to 

door ; 
There,  as  of  yore, 
The  rich,  milk-tingeing  buttercup 
Its  tiny  polished  urn  holds  up, 
Filled  with  ripe  summer  to  the  edge, 


AL   FRESCO.  —  MASACCIO. 


383 


The  sun  in  his  own  wine  to  pledge  ; 
And  our  tall  elm,  this  hundredth  year 
Doge  of  our  leafy  Venice  here, 
Who,  with  an  annual  ring,  doth  wed 
The  blue  Adriatic  overhead, 
Shadows  with  his  palatial  mass 
The  deep  canals  of  flowing  grass. 

O  unestranged  birds  and  bees  ! 
O  face  of  nature  always  true ! 
O  never-unsympathizing  trees ! 
O  never-rejecting  roof  of  blue, 
Whose  rash  disherison  never  falls 
On  us  unthinking  prodigals, 
Yet  who  convictest  all  our  ill, 
So  grand  and  unappeasable  ! 
Methinks  my  heart  from  each  of  these 
Plucks  part  of  childhood  back  again, 
Long  there  imprisoned,  as  the  breeze 
Doth  every  hidden  odor  seize 
Of  wood  and  water,  hill  and  plain. 
Once  more  am  I  admitted  peer 
In  the  upper  house  of  Nature  here, 
And  feel  through  all  my  pulses  run 
The  royal  blood  of  breeze  and  sun. 

Upon  these  elm-arched  solitudes 
No  hum  of  neighbor  toil  intrudes; 
The  only  hammer  that  I  hear 
Is  wielded  by  the  woodpecker, 
The  single  noisy  calling  his 
In  all  our  leaf-hid  Sybaris  ; 
The  good  old  time,  close-hidden  here, 
Persists,  a  loyal  cavalier, 
While  Roundheads  prim,  with  point  of 

fox, 
Probe  wainscot-chink  and  empty  box; 
Here  no  hoarse-voiced  iconoclast 
Insults  thy  statues,  royal  Past ; 
Myself  too  prone  the  axe  to  wield, 
I  touch  the  silver  side  of  the  shield 
With    lance   reversed,    and    challenge 

peace, 
A  willing  convert  of  the  trees. 

How  chanced  it  that  so  long  I  tost 
A  cable's  length  from  this  rich  coast, 
With  foolish  anchors  hugging  close 
The  beckoning  weeds  and  lazy  ooze, 
Nor  had  the  wit  to  wreck  before 
On  this  enchanted  island's  shore, 
Whither  the  current  of  the  sea, 
With  wiser  drift,  persuaded  me  ? 


O,  might  we  but  of  such  rare  days 
Build  up  the  spirit's  dwelling-place  ! 
A  temple  of  so  Parian  stone 
Would  brook  a  marble  god  alone, 
The  statue  of  a  perfect  life, 
Far-shrined    from    earth's    bestaining 

strife, 
Alas  !  though  such  felicity 
In  our  vext  world  here  may  not  be, 
Yet,  as  sometimes  the  peasant's  hut 
Shows  stones  which  old  religion  cut 
With  text  inspired,  or  mystic  sign 
Of  the  Eternal  and  Divine, 
Torn  from  the  consecration  deep 
Of  some  fallen  nunnery's  mossy  sleep, 
So,  from  the  ruins  of  this  day 
Crumbling  in  golden  dust  away. 
The  soul  one  gracious  block  may  draw, 
Carved  with  some  fragment  of  the  law, 
Which,  set  in  life's  uneven  wall, 
Old  benedictions  may  recall, 
And  lure  some  nunlike  thoughts  to  take 
Their  dwelling  here  for  memory"s  sake. 


MASACCIO. 

(in  the  brancacci  chapel.) 

He  came  to  Florence  long  ago, 
Andpainted  here  these  walls,  that  shone 
For  Raphael  and  for  Angelo, 
With  secrets  deeper  than  his  own, 
Then  shrank  into  the  dark  again, 
And  died,  we  know  not  how  or  when. 

The  shadows  deepened,  and  I  turned 
Half  sadlv  from  the  fresco  grand  ; 
"  And  is  this,"  mused  I,  "  all  ye  earned, 
High-vaulted  brain  and  cunning  hand, 
That  ye  to  greater  men  could  teach 
The     skill     yourselves    could    never 
reach  ? " 

"  And  who  were  they,"  I  mused,  "  that 

wrought 
Through  paUiless  wilds,  with  laborlong, 
The  highways  of  our  daily  thought? 
Who  reared   those   towers   of  earliest 

song 
That  lift  us  from  the  throng  to  peace 
Remote  in  sunny  silences  ? " 


384        WITHOUT  AND   WITHIN.  — GODMINSTER   CHIMES. 


Out  clanged  the  Ave  Mary  bells, 
And  to  my  heart  this  message  came  : 
Each  clamorous  throat  amongthem  tells 
What  strong-souled  martyrs  died    in 

flame 
To  make  it  possible  that  thou 
Shouldst  here  with  brothersinners  bow. 

Thoughts  that  great  hearts  once  broke 

for,  we 
Breathe  cheaply  in  the  common  air  ; 
The  dust  we  trample  heedlessly 
Throbbed   once   in   saints  and  heroes 

rare, 
VV'ho  perished,  opening  for  their  race 
New  pathways  to  the  commonplace. 

Henceforth,  when  rings  the  health   to 

those 
Who  live  in  story  and  in  song, 
O  nameless  dead,  who  now  repose 
Safe  in  Oblivion's  chambers  strong, 
One  cup  of  recognition  true 
Shall  silently  be  drained  to  you  1 


WITHOUT  AND  WITHIN. 

My  coachman,  in  the  moonlight  there, 
Looks  through  the  side-light  of  the 
door; 

I  hear  him  with  his  brethren  swear, 
As  I  could  do,  —  but  only  more. 

Flattening  his  nose  against  the  pane, 
He  envies  me  my  brilliant  lot, 

Breathes  on  his  aching  fists  in  vain. 
And  dooms  me  to  a  place  more  hot. 

He  sees  me  in  to  supper  go, 
A  silken  wonder  by  my  side, 

Bare  arms,  bare  shoulders,  and  a  row  ' 
Of  flounces,  for  the  door  too  wide. 

He  thinks  how  happy  is  my  arm 

'Neath  its  white-gloved  and  jewelled 
load  ; 

And  wishes  me  some  dreadful  harm, 
Hearing  the  merry  corks  explode. 

Meanwhile  I  inly  curse  the  bore 
Of  hunting  still  the  same  old  coon, 

And  envy  him,  outside  the  door, 
In  golden  quiets  of  the  moon. 


The  winter  wind  is  not  so  cold 

As  the  bright  smile  he  sees  me  win. 

Nor  the  host's  oldest  wine  so  old 
As  our  poor  gabble  sour  and  thin. 

I  envy  him  the  ungyved  prance 

By  which  his  freezing  feet  he  warms, 

And  drag  my  lady's-chains  and  dance 
The  galley-slave  of  dreary  forms. 

O,  could  he  have  my  share  of  din, 
And  I  his  quiet  !  —  past  a  doubt 

'T  would  still  be  one  man  bored  within, 
And  just  another  bored  without. 


GODMINSTER  CHIMES. 

WRITTEN  IN  AID  OF  A  CHIME  OF  BELLS 
FOR   CHRIST   CHURCH,   CAMBRIDGE. 

Godminster  ?    Is  it  Fancy's  play  ? 

I  know  not,  but  the  word 
Sings  in  my  heart,  nor  can  I  say 

Whether  't  was  dreamed  or  heard  ; 
Yet  fragrant  in  my  mind  it  clings 

As  blossoms  after  rain, 
And  builds  of  half-remembered  things 

This  vision  in  my  brain. 

Through  aisles  of  long-drawn  centuries 

My  spirit  walks  in  thought, 
And  to  that  symbol  lifts  its  eyes 

Which  God's  own  pity  wrought ; 
From  Calvary  shines  the  altar's  gleam, 

The  Church's  East  is  there, 
The  Ages  one  great  minster  seem, 

That  throbs  with  praise  and  prayer. 

And  all  the  way  from  Calvary  down 

The  carven  pavement  shows 
Their  graves  who  won  the   martyr'* 
crown 

And  safe  in  God  repose  ; 
The  saints  of  many  a  warring  creed 

Who  now  in  heaven  have  learned 
That  all  paths  to  the  Father  lead 

Where  Self  the  feet  have  spurned. 

And,  as  the  mystic  aisles  I  pace, 
By  aureoled  workmen  built, 

Lives  ending  at  the  Cross  I  trace 
Alike  through  grace  and  guilt ; 


THE  PARTING   OF   THE    WAYS. 


38s 


One  Mary  bathes  the  blessed  feet 
With  ointment  from  her  eyes, 

With  spikenard  one,  and  both  are  sweet, 
For  both  are  sacrifice. 

Moravian  hymn  and  Roman  chant 

In  one  devotion  blend, 
To  speak  the  soul's  eternal  want 

Of  Him,  the  inmost  friend  ; 
One  prayer  soars  cleansed  with  martyr 
fire, 

One  choked  with  sinner's  tears, 
In  heaven  both  meet  in  one  desire, 

And  God  one  music  hears. 

Whilst  thus  I  dream,  the  bells  clash  out 

Upon  the  Sabbath  air, 
Each  seems  a  hostile  faith  to  shout, 

A  selfish  form  of  prayer  ; 
My  dream  is  shattered,  yet  who  knows 

But  in  that  heaven  so  near 
These  discords  find  harmonious  close 

In  God's  atoning  ear? 

O  chime  of  sweet  Saint  Charity, 

Peal  soon  that  Easter  mom 
When  Christ  for  all  shall  risen  be, 

And  in  all  hearts  new-born  ! 
That  Pentecost  when  utterance  clear 

To  all  men  shall  be  given, 
When  all  shall  say  My  Brother  here, 

And  hear  My  Son  in  heaven  1 


THE  PARTING  OF  THE  WAYS. 

Who  hath  not  been  a  poet?  Who  hath 

not, 
With  life's  new  quiver  full  of  winged 

years, 
Shot  at  a  venture,  and  then,  following 

on, 
Stood  doubtful  at  the  Parting  of  the 

Ways? 

There  once  I  stood  ;n  dream,  and  as  I 

paused, 
Looking  this  way  and  that,  came  forth 

to  me 
The  figure  of  a  woman  veiled,  that  said, 
"  My  name  is  Duty,  turn   and  follow 

me"; 
Something  there  was  that  chilled  me  in 

her  voice  ; 


I  felt  Youth's  hand  grow  slack  and  cold 
in  mine, 

As  if  to  be  withdrawn,  and  I  replied  : 

"  O,  leave  the  hot  wild  heart  within  my 
breast ! 

Duty  comes  soon  enough,  too  soon 
comes  Death  ; 

This  slippery  globe  of  life  whirls  of  it- 
self, 

Hasting  our  youth  away  into  the  dark  ; 

These  senses,  quivering  with  electric 
heats, 

Too  soon  will  show,  like  nests  on  win- 
try boughs 

Obtrusive  emptiness,  too  palpable 
wreck, 

Which  whistling  northwinds  line  with 
downy  snow 

Sometimes,  or  fringe  with  foliaged 
rime,  in  vain, 

Thither  the  singing  birds  no  more  re- 
turn." 

Then  glowed  to  me  a  maiden  from  the 

left, 
With  bosom  half  disclosed,  and  naked 

arms 
More  white  and  undulant  than  necks 

of  swans ; 
And  all  before  her  steps  an  influence  ran 
Warm   as  the   whispering  South  that 

opens   buds 
And  swells  the  laggard  sails  of  North- 
ern May. 
"  I  am  called  Pleasure,  come  with  me  ! " 

she  said, 
Then  laughed,  and  shook  out  sunshine 

from  her  hair, 
Not  only  that,  but,  so  it  seemed,  shook 

out 
All   memory  too,  and  all  the   moonlit 

past, 
Old  loves,  old    aspirations,   and    old 

dreams, 
More  beautiful  for  being  old  and  gone. 

So  we  two  went  together ;  downward 

sloped 
The  path  through  yellow  meads,  or  so 

I  dreamed, 
Yellow  with  sunshine  and  young  green, 

but  I 
Saw  naught  nor  heard,  shut  up  in  one 

close  joy ; 


386 


THE   PARTING  OF   THE    WAYS. 


I  only  felt  the  hand  within  my  own, 
Transmuting  all  my  blood  to  golden  fire, 
Dissolving  all  my  brain   in   throbbing 
mist. 

Suddenly  shrank  the  hand  ;  suddenly 
burst 

A  cry  that  split  the  torpor  of  my  brain, 

And  as  the  first  sharp  thrust  of  light- 
ning loosens 

From  the  heaped  cloud  its  rain,  loos- 
ened my  sense  : 

"  Save  me  ! "  it  thrilled ;  "  O,  hide  me  ! 
there  is  Death  ! 

Death  the  divider,  the  unmerciful, 

That  digs  his  pitfalls  under  Love  and 
Youth 

And  covers  Beauty  up  in  the  cold 
ground  ; 

Horrible  Death  !  bringer  of  endless 
dark  ; 

Let  him  not  see  me  !  hide  me  in  thy 
breast  !  " 

Thereat  I  strove  to  clasp  her,  but  my 
arms 

Met  only  what  slipped  crumbling  down, 
and  fell, 

A  handful  of  gray  ashes,  at  my  feet. 

I  would  have  fled,  I  would  have  fol- 
lowed back 

That  pleasant  path  we  came,  but  all 
was  changed  ; 

Rocky  the  way,  abrupt,  and  hard  to  find  ; 

Yet  I  toiled  on,  and,  toiling  on,  I 
thought, 

"  That  way  lies  Youth,  and  Wisdom, 
and  all  Good  : 

For  only  by  unlearning  Wisdom  comes 

And  climbing  backward  to  diviner 
Youth ; 

What  the  world  teaches  profits  to  the 
world, 

What  the  soul  teaches  profits  to  the 
soul, 

Which  then  first  stands  erect  with  God- 
ward  face, 

When  she  lets  fall  her  pack  of  withered 
facts, 

The  gleanings  of  the  outward  eye  and 
ear, 

And  looks  and  listens  with  her  finer 
sense  ; 

Nor  Truth  nor  Knowledge  cometh 
from  without." 


After  long  weary  days  I  stood  again 

And  waited  at  the  Parting  of  the  Ways  ; 

Again  the  figure  of  a  woman  veiled 

Stood  forth  and  beckoned,  and  I    fol- 
lowed now  : 

Down  to  no  bower  of  roses  led  the  path. 

But  through  the  streets  of  towns  where 
chattering  Cold 

Hewed  wood  for  fires  whose  glow  was 
owned  and  fenced. 

Where  Nakedness  wove  garments  of 
warm  wool 

Not  for  itself; — or  through  the  fields 
it  led 

Where  Hunger  reaped  the   unattaina- 
ble grain, 

Where  Idleness  enforced  saw  idle  lands, 

Leagues  of  unpeopled  soil,  the  common 
earth, 

Walled  round  with  paper  against  God 
and  Man. 

"  I  cannot  look,"  I  groaned,  "at  only 
these  ; 

The  heart  grows  hardened  with  perpet- 
ual wont, 

And  palters  with  a  feigned  necessity, 

Bargaining  with  itself  to  be  content  ; 

Let  me  behold  thy  face." 

The  Form  replied  : 

"  Men  follow  Duty,  never  overtake  ; 

Duty  nor  lifts  her  veil  nor  looks  be- 
hind." 

But,  as  she  spake,  a  loosened  lock  of 
hair 

Slipped  from  beneath  her  hood,  and  I, 
who  looked 

To  see  it  gray  and  thin,  saw  amplest 
gold  ; 

Not  that  dull  metal  dug  from  sordid 
earth, 

But  such  as  the  retiring  sunset  flood 

Leaves  heaped  on  bays  and  capes  of 
island  cloud. 

"O  Guide  divine,"  I  prayed,  "although 
not  yet 

I  may  repair  the  virtue  which  I  feel 

Gone  out  at  touch  of  untuned  things 
and  foul 

With  draughts  of  Beauty,  yet  declare 
how  soon  !  " 

"  Faithless   and   faint   of   heart,"   the 

voice  returned, 
"  Thou  see'st  no  beauty  save  thou  make 

it  first ; 


ALADDIN.— AN  INVITATION. 


337 


Man,  Woman,  Nature,  each  is  but  a 
glass 

Where  the  soul  sees  the  image  of  her- 
self. 

Visible  echoes,  offsprings  of  herself. 

But,  since  thou  need'st  assurance  of  how 
soon, 

Wait  till  that  angel  comes  who  opens 
all, 

The  reconciler,  he  who  lifts  the  veil, 

The  reuniter,  the  rest-bringer,  Death." 

I  waited,  and  methought  he  came  ;  but 
how. 

Or  in  what  shape,  I  doubted,  for  no 
sign, 

By  touch  or  mark,  he  gave  me  as  he 
passed  : 

Only  I  know  a  lily  that  I  held 

Snapt  short  below  the  head  and  shriv- 
elled up ; 

Then  turned  my  Guide  and  looked  at 
me  unveiled, 

And  I  beheld  no  face  of  matron  stern, 

But  that  enchantment  I  had  followed 
erst, 

Only  more  fair,  more  clear  to  eye  and 
brain, 

Heightened  and  chastened  by  a  house- 
hold charm  ; 

She  smiled,  and  "  Which  is  fairer,"  said 
her  eyes, 

"  The  hag's  unreal  Florimel  or  mine  ? " 


ALADDIN. 

When  I  was  a  beggarly  boy, 

And  lived  in  a  cellar  damp, 
I  had  not  a  friend  nor  a  toy, 

But  I  had  Aladdin's  lamp  ; 
When  I  could  not  sleep  for  cold, 

I  had  fire  enough  in  my  brain, 
And  builded,  with  roofs  of  gold, 

My  beautiful  castles  in  Spain  ! 

Since  then  I  have  toiled  day  and  night, 
I  have  money  and  power  good  store, 

But  I  'd  give  all   my  lamps  of  silver 
bright, 
For  the  one  that  is  mine  no  more  ; 

Take,  Fortune,  whatever  you  choose, 
You  gave,  and  may  snatch  again  ; 


I  have  nothing  't  would  pain  me  to  lose, 
For  I  own  no  more  castles  in  Spain  1 


AN    INVITATION. 

Nine  years  have  slipt  like  hour-glass 

sand 
From  life's  still-emptying  globe  away, 
Since  last,  dear  friend,  I  clasped  your 

hand, 
And  stood  upon  the  impoverished  land, 
Watching  the  steamer  down  the  bay. 

I  held  the  token  which  you  gave, 
While  slowly  the  smoke-pennon  curled 
O'er  the  vague  rim  'tween  sky  and  wave, 
And  shut  the  distance  like  a  grave, 
Leaving  me  in  the  colder  world. 

The  old  worn  world  of  hurry  and  heat, 
The  young,  fresh  world  of  thought  and 

scope, 
While    you,  where   beckoning  billows 

fleet 
Climb  far  sky-beaches  still  and  sweet, 
Sank  wavering  down  the  ocean-slope. 

Vou  sought  the  new  world  in  the  old, 
1  found  the  old  world  in  the  new, 
All  that  our  human  hearts  can  hold, 
The  inward  world  of  deathless  mould, 
The  same  that  Father  Adam  knew. 

He  needs  no  ship  to  cross  the  tide, 
Who,  in  the  lives  about  him,  sees 
Fair  window-prospects  opening  wide 
O'er  history's  fields  on  every  side, 
To  Ind  and  Egypt,  Rome  and  Greece. 

Whatever  moulds  of  various  brain 
E'er  shaped  the  world  to  weal  or  woe, 
Whatever  empires'  wax  and  wane, 
To  him  that  hath  not  eyes  in  vain, 
Our  village-microcosm  can  show. 

Come  back  our  ancient  walks  to  tread, 
Dear  haunts  of  lost  or  scattered  friends, 
Old  Harvard's  scholar-factories  red, 
Where  song  and  smoke  and  laughter 

sped 
The  nights  to  proctor-haunted  ends. 


338 


AN  1NVITA  TION. 


Constant  are  all  our  former  loves, 
Unchanged  the  icehouse-girdled  pond, 
Its  hemlock  glooms,  its  shadowy  coves, 
Where  floats  the  coot  and  nevermoves, 
Its  slopes  of  long-tamed  green  beyond. 

Our  old  familiars  are  not  laid, 
Though  snapt  our  wands  and  sunk  our 

books ; 
They  beckon,  not  to  be  gainsaid, 
Where,  round  broad  meads  that  mowers 

wade, 
The  Charles  his  steel-blue  sickle  cropks. 

Where,   as  the    cloudbergs    eastward 

blow, 
From  glow  to  gloom  the  hillsides  shift 
Their  plumps  of  orchard-trees  arow, 
Their  lakes  of  rye  that  wave  and  flow, 
Their  snowy  whiteweed's  summer  drift. 

There  have  we  watched  the  West  un- 
furl 
A  cloud  Byzantium  newly  born, 
With   flickering  spires  and  domes  of 

pearl, 
And  vapory  surfs  that  crowd  and  curl 
Into  the  sunset's  Golden  Horn. 

There,  as  the  flaming  Occident 
Burned  slowly  down  to  ashes  gray, 
Night  pitched  o'erhead  her  silent  tent, 
And    glimmering    gold    from    Hesper 

sprent 
Upon  the  darkened  river  lay, 

Where  a  twin  sky  but  just  before 
Deepened,      and      double      swallows 

skimmed, 
And,  from  a  visionary  shore, 
Hung   visioned   trees,  that,  more   and 

more 
Grew  duskasthose  above  were  dimmed. 

Then  eastward  saw  we  slowly  grow 
Clear-edged  the  lines  of  roof  and  spire, 
While  great  elm-masses  blacken  slow, 
And   linden-ricks    their    round    heads 

show 
Against  a  flush  of  widening  fire. 

Doubtful  at  first  and  far  away, 
The  moon-flood  creeps  more  wide  and 
wide  ; 


Up  a  ridged  beach  of  cloudy  feray, 
Curved  round  the  east  as  round  a  bay, 
It  slips  and  spreads  its  gradual  tide. 

Then  suddenly,  in  lurid  mood, 

The  moon  looms  large  o'er  town  and 

field 
As  upon  Adam,  red  like  blood, 
'Tween  him  and  Eden's  happy  wood, 
Glared  the  commissioned  angel's  shield. 

Or  let  us  seek  the  seaside,  there 
To  wander  idly  as  we  list, 
Whether,  on  rocky  headlands  bare, 
Sharp  cedar-horns,  like  breakers,  tear 
The  trailing  fringes  of  gray  mist, 

Or  whether,  under  skies  full  flown, 
The  brightening  surfs,  with  foamy  din, 
Their  breeze-caught  forelocks  backward 

blown, 
Against  the  beach's  yellow  zone, 
Curl  slow,  and  plunge  forever  in. 

And,  as  we  watch  those  canvas  towers 
That  lean  along  the  horizon's  rim, 
"Sail   on,"  I '11  say;  "may   sunniest 

hours 
Convoy  you  from  this  land  of  ours, 
Since  from  my  side  you  bear  not  him  !  " 

For  years  thrice  three,   wise   Horace 

said, 
A  poem  rare  let  silence  bind  ; 
And  love  may  ripen  in  the  shade, 
Like  ours,  for  nine  long  seasons  laid 
In  deepest  arches  of  the  mind. 

Come  back  !  Not  ours  the  Old  World's 

good, 
The  Old  World's  ill,  thank  God,  not 

ours  : 
But  here,  far  better  understood, 
The  days  enforce  our  native  mood, 
And  challenge  all  our  manlier  powers. 

Kindlier  to  me  the  place  of  birth 
That  first  my  tottering  footsteps  trod  ; 
There  may  be  fairer  spots  of  earth, 
But  all  their  glories  are  not  worth 
The  virtue  of  the  native  sod. 

Thence  climbs  an  influence  morebenie:n 
Through  pulse  and  nerve,  through  heart 
and  brain ; 


AN  INVITATION.— THE  NOMADES. 


389 


Sacred  to  me  those  fibres  fine 

That  first  clasped  earth.     O,  ne'er  be 

mine 
The  alien  sun  and  alien  rain  ! 

These  nourish  not  like  homelier  glows 
Or  waterings  of  familiar  skies, 
And  nature  fairer  blooms  bestows 
On  the  heaped  hush  of  wintry  snows, 
In  pastures  dear  to  childhood's  eyes, 

Than  where  Italian  earth  receives 
The  partial  sunshine's  ampler  boons, 
Where  vines  carve  friezes  'neath  the 

eaves, 
And,  in  dark  firmaments  of  leaves, 
The  orange  lifts  its  golden  moons. 


THE  NOMADES. 

What  Nature  makes  in  any  mood 
To  me  is  warranted  for  good, 
Though  long  before  I  learned  to  see 
She  did  not  set  us  moral  theses, 
And  scorned  to  have  her  sweet  caprices 
Strait-waistcoated  in  you  or  me. 

I,  who  take  root  and  firmly  cling, 
Thought  fixedness  the  only  thing  ; 
Why  Nature  made  the  butterflies, 
(Those  dreams  of  wings  that  float  and 

hover 
At  noon  the  slumberous  poppies  over,) 
Was  something  hidden  from  mine  eyes, 

Till  once,  upon  a  rock's  brown  bosom, 
Bright  as  a  thorny  cactus-blossom, 
I  saw  a  butterfly  at  rest ; 
Then  first  of  both  I  felt  the  beauty  ; 
The  airy  whim,  the  grim-set  duty, 
Each  from  the  other  took  its  best. 

Clearer  it  grew  than  winter  sky 
That  Nature  still  had  reasons  why  ; 
And,  shifting  sudden  as  a  breeze, 
My  fancy  found  no  satisfaction, 
No  antithetic  sweet  attraction, 
So  great  as  in  the  Nomades. 

Scythians,  with  Nature  not  at  strife, 
Light  Arabs  of  our  complex  life, 


They  build  no  houses,  plant  no  mills 
To  utilize  Time's  sliding  river, 
Content  that  it  flow  waste  forever. 
If  they,  like  it,  may  have  their  wills. 

An  hour  they  pitch  their  shifting  tents 
In  thoughts,  in  feelings,  and  events; 
Beneath  the  palm-trees,  on  the  grass, 
They  sing,  they  dance,  make  love,  and 

chatter, 
Vex  the  grim  temples  with  their  clatter, 
And  make  Truth's  fount  their  looking- 
glass. 

A  picnic  life  ;  from  love  to  love, 
From  faith  to  faith  they  lightly  move, 
And  yet,  hard-eyed  philosopher, 
The  flightiest  maid  that  ever  hovered 
To  me  your  thought-webs  fine  discov- 
ered, 
No  lens  to  see  them  through  like  her. 

So  witchingly  her  finger-tips 
To  Wisdom,  as  away  she  trips, 
She  kisses,  waves  such  sweet  farewells 
To  Duty,  as  she  laughs  "  To-morrow  !  " 
That  both  from  that  mad  contrast  bor- 
row 
A  perfectness  found  nowhere  else. 

The  beach-bird  on  its  pearly  verge 
Follows  and  flies  the  whispering  surge, 
While,  in  his  tent,  the  rock-stayed  shell 
Awaits  the  flood's  star-timed  vibrations, 
And  both,  the  flutter  and  the  patience, 
The  sauntering  poet  loves  them  well. 

Fulfil  so  much  of  God's  decree 
As  works  its  problem  out  in  thee, 
Nor  dream  that  in  thy  breast  alone 
The  conscience  of  the  changeful  sea- 
sons, 
The  Will  that  in  the  planets  reasons 
With  Space-wide  logic,  has  its  throne. 

Thy  virtue  makes  not  vice  of  mine, 
Unlike,  but  none  the  less  divine  ; 
Thy  toil  adorns,  not  chides,  my  play; 
Nature  of  sameness  is  so  chary, 
With  such  wild  whim  the  freakish  fairy 
Picks  presents  for  the  christening-day. 


39° 


SELF-STUDY.  —  PICTURES  FROM  APPLEDORE. 


SELF-STUDY. 

A  presence  both  by  night  and  day, 
That  made  my  lite  seem  just  begun, 
Yet  scarce  a  presence,  rather  say 
The  warning  aureole  of  one. 

And  yet  I  felt  it  everywhere; 
Walked  I  the  woodland's  aisles  along, 
It  seemed  to  brush  me  with  its  hair; 
Bathed  I,  I  heard  a  mermaid's  song. 

How  sweet  it  was  !     A  buttercup 
Could  hold  for  me  a  day's  delight, 
A  bird  could  lift  my  fancy  up 
To  ether  free  from  cloud  or  blight. 

Who  was  the  nymph?     Nay,  I  will  see, 
Methought,  and  I  will  know  her  near; 
If  such,  divined,  her  charm  can  be, 
Seen  and  possessed,  how  triply  dear  1 

So  every  magic  art  I  tried, 
And  spells  as  numberless  as  sand, 
Until,  one  evening,  by  my  side 
I  saw  her  glowing  fulness  stand. 

I  turned  to  clasp  her,  but  "  Farewell," 
Parting  she  sighed,  "  we  meet  no  more ; 
Not  by  my  hand  the  curtain  fell 
That  leaves   you  conscious,  wise,  and 
poor. 

"  Since  you  have  found  me  out,  I  go  ; 
Another  lover  I  must  find, 
Content  his  happiness  to  know, 
Nor  strive  its  secret  to  unwind." 


PICTURES  FROM  APPLEDORE. 

I. 
A  heap  of  bare  and  splintery  crags 
Tumbled  about  by  lightning  and  frost, 
With    rifts    and     chasms    and    storm- 
bleached  jags, 
That  wait  and  growl  for  a  ship  to  be 

lost ; 
No  island,  but  rather  the  skeleton 
Of  a  wrecked  and   vengeance-smitten 

one. 
Where,  a^nns  ago,  with  half  shut  eye, 
The  sluggish  saurian  crawled  to  die, 


Gasping  under  titanic  ferns  ; 
Ribs  of  rock  that  seaward  jut, 
Granite   shoulders    and    boulders   and 

snags, 
Round   which,    though    the  winds   in 

heaven  be  shut, 
The   nightmared   ocean  murmurs  and 

yearns, 
Welters,  and  swashes,  and  tosses,  and 

turns, 
And  the  dreary  black  sea-weed  lolls  and 

wags ; 
Only  rock  from  shore  to  shore, 
Only  a  moan  through  the  bleak  clefts 

blown, 
With  sobs  in  the  rifts  where  the  coarse 

kelp  shifts, 
Falling  and  lifting,  tossing  and  drifting, 
And  under  all  a  deep,  dull  roar, 
Dying  and  swelling,  ibrevermore,  — 
Rock  and  moan  and  roar  alone, 
And  the  dread  of  some  nameless  thing 

unknown, 
These  make  Appledore. 

These  make  Appledore  by  night  • 
Then  there  are  monsters  left  and  right ; 
Every  rock  is  a  different  monster  ; 
All  you  have  read  of,  fancied,  dreamed, 
When  you  waked  at  night  because  you 

screamed, 
There  they  lie  for  half  a  mile, 
Jumbled  together  in  a  pile, 
And  (though  you  know  they  never  once 

stir), 
If  you   look  long,   they  seem   to    be 

moving 
Just  as  plainly  as  plain  can  be, 
Crushing   and   crowding,   wading  and 

shoving 
Out  into  the  awful  sea, 
Where  you  can  hear  them  snort  and 

spout 
With  pauses  between,  as  if  they  were 

listening, 
Then  tumult  anon  when  the  surf  breaks 

glistening 
In   the   blackness   where  they  wallow 

about. 


All  this  youwouldscarcely  comprehend, 
Should  you  see  the  isle  on  a  sunny  day ; 
Then  it  is  simpie  enough  in  its  way,  — 


PICTURES  FROM  APPLEDORE. 


39> 


Two  rocky  bulges,  one  at  each  end, 

With  a  smaller  bulge  and  a  hollow  be- 
tween ; 

Patches  of  whortleberry  and  bay  ; 

Accidents  of  open  green, 

Sprinkled  with  loose  slabs  square  and 
gray, 

Like  graveyards  for  ages  deserted  ;  a 
few 

Unsocial  thistles  ;  an  elder  or  two, 

Foamed  over  with  blossoms  white  as 
spray  ; 

And  on  the  whole  island  never  a  tree 

Save  a  score  of  sumachs,  high  as  your 
knee, 

That  crouch  in  hollows  where  they  may, 

(The  cellars  where  once  stood  a  village, 
men  say,) 

Huddling  for  warmth,  and  never  grew 

Tall  enough  for  a  peep  at  the  sea ; 

A  general  dazzle  of  open  blue  ; 

A  breeze  always  blowing  and  playing 
rat-tat 

With  the  bow  of  the  ribbon  round  your 
hat; 

A  score  of  sheep  that  do  nothing  but 
stare 

Up  or  down  at  you  everywhere  ; 

Three  or  four  cattle  that  chew  the  cud 

Lying  about  in  a  listless  despair  ; 

A  medrick  that  makes  you  look  over- 
head 

With  short,  sharp  scream,  as  he  sights 
his  prey, 

And,  dropping  straight  and  swift  as 
lead, 

Splits  the  water  with  sudden  thud  ;  — 

This  is  Appledore  by  day. 

A  common  island,  you  will  say ; 
But  stay  a  moment  :  only  climb 
Up  to  the  highest  rock  of  the  isle. 
Stand  there  alone  for  a  little  while, 
And  with  gentle  approaches  it  grows 

sublime, 
Dilating  slowly  as  you  win 
A  sense  from  the  silence  to  take  it  in. 
So  wide  the  loneness,  so  lucid  the  air, 
The  granite  beneath   you  so  savagely 

bare, 
You  well  might  think  you  were  looking 

down 
From  some    sky-silenced    mountain's 

crown, 


Whose  far-down  pines  are  wont  to  tear 

Locks  of  wool  from  the  topmost  cloud. 

Only  be  sure  you  go  alone, 

For  Grandeur  is  inaccessibly  proud. 

And  never  yet  has  backward  thrown 

Her  veil  to  feed  the  stare  of  a  crowd ; 

To  more  than  one  was  never  shown 

That  awful  front,  nor  is  it  fit 

That  she,  Cothurnus-shod,  stand  bowed 

Until  the  self-approving  pit 

Enjoy  the  gust  of  its  own  wit 

In  babbling  plaudits  cheaply  loud  ; 

She  hides  her  mountains  and  her  sea 

From  the  harriers  of  scenery, 

Who  hunt  down  sunsets,  and  huddle 

and  bay, 
Mouthing  and  mumbling  the  dying  day. 

Trust  me,  't  is  something  to  be  cast 
Face  to  face  with  one's  Self  at  last, 
To  be  taken  out  of  the  fuss  and  strife, 
The  endless  clatter  of  plate  and  knife, 
The  bore  of  books  and  the  bores  of  the 

street, 
From  the  singular  mess  we  agree  to  call 

Life, 
Where  that  is  best  which  the  most  fools 

vote  is, 
And  to  be  set  down  on  one's  own  two 

feet 
So   nigh   to  the  gTeat  warm  heart  of 

God, 
You  almost  seem  to  feel  it  beat 
Down  from  the  sunshine  and  up  from 

the  sod ; 
To  be  compelled,  as  it  were,  to  notice 
All  the  beautiful  changes  and  chances 
Through  which  the  landscape  flits  and 

glances, 
And  to  see  how  the  face  of  common 

day 
Is  written  all  over  with  tender  histories, 
When  you  study  it  that  intenser  way 
In  which  a  lover  looks  at  his  mistress. 

Till  now  you  dreamed  not  what  could 

be  done 
With  a  bit  of  rock  and  a  ray  of  sun  ; 
But  look,  how  fade  the  lights  and  shades 
Of  keen  bare  edge  and  crevice  deep  ! 
How  doubtfully  it  fades  and  fades, 
And  glows  again,  yon  craggy  steep, 
O'er  which,  through  color's  dreamiest 

grades, 


392 


PICTURES  FROM  APPLEDORE. 


The  yellow  sunbeams  pause  and  creep  ! 
Now  pink   it  blooms,   now  glimmers 

gray. 
Now  shadows  to  a  filmy  blue, 
Tries  one,  tries  all,  and  will  not  stay, 
But  flits  from  opal  hue  to  hue, 
And  runs  through  every  tenderest  range 
Of  change  that  seems  not  to  be  change, 
So  rare  the  sweep,  so  nice  the  art, 
That  lays  no  stress  on  any  part, 
But  shifts  and  lingers  and  persuades  ; 
So  soft  that  sun-brush  in  the  west, 
That  asks  no  costlier  pigments'  aids, 
But    mingling    knobs,    flaws,    angles, 

dints, 
Indifferent  of  worst  or  best, 
Enchants  the  cliffs  with  wraiths  and 

hints 
And  gracious  preludings  of  tints, 
Where  all  seems  fixed,  yet  all  evades, 
And  indefinably  pervades 
Perpetual    movement   with    perpetual 

rest! 

III. 

Away  northeast  is  Boone  Island  light ; 
You  might  mistake  it  for  a  ship, 
Only  it  stands  too  plumb  upright, 
And  like  the  others  does  not  slip 
Behind  the  sea's  unsteady  brink ; 
Though,  if  a  cloud-shade  chance  to  dip 
Upon  it  a  moment,  't  will  suddenly  sink, 
Levelled  and  lost  in  the  darkened  main, 
Till  the  sun  builds  it  suddenly  up  again, 
As  if  with  a  rub  of  Aladdin's  lamp. 
On  the  main-land  you  see  a  misty  camp 
Of  mountains  pitched  tumultuously  : 
That  one  looming  so  long  and  large 
Is  Saddleback,  and  that  point  you  see 
Over  yon  low  and  rounded  marge, 
Like  the  boss  of  a  sleeping  giant's  targe 
Laid  over  his  breast,  is  Ossipee  ; 
That  shadow  there  may  be  Kearsarge  ; 
That  must  be  Great  Haystack  ;    I  love 

these  names, 
Wherewith  the  lonely  farmer  tames 
Nature  to  mute  companionship 
With  his  own  mind's  domestic  mood, 
And  strives  the  surly  world  to  clip 
In  the  arms  of  familiar  habitude. 
'T  is  well  he  could  not  contrive  to  make 
A  Saxon  of  Agamenticus  : 
He  glowers  there  to  the  north  of  us, 
Wrapt  in  his  blanket  of  blue  haze, 


Unconvertibly  savage,  and  scorns  to 

take 
The  white  man's  baptism  or  his  ways. 
Him  first  on  shore  the  coaster  divines 
Through  the  early  gray,  and  sees  him 

shake 
The  morning  mist  from  his  scalp-lock 

of  pines ; 
Him  first  the  skipper  makes  out  in  the 

west, 
Ere  the  earliest  sunstreak  shoots  trem- 
ulous, 
Plashing  with  orange  the  palpitant  lines 
Of  mutable  billow,  crest  after  crest, 
And  murmurs  Agamenticus  ! 
As  if  it  were  the  name  of  a  saint. 
But  is  that  a  mountain  playing  cloud, 
Or  a  cloud  playing  mountain,  just  there, 

so  faint? 
Look  along  over  the  low  right  shoulder 
Of  Agamenticus  into  that  crowd 
Of  brassy  thunderheads  behind  it ; 
Now  you  have  caught  it,  but,  ere  you 

are  older 
By  half  an  hour,  you  will  lose  it  and 

find  it 
A  score  of  times ;  while  you  look  't  is 

gone, 
And,  just  as  you  've  given  it  up,  anon 
It  is  there  again,  till  your  weary  eyes 
Fancy  they  see  it  waver  and  rise, 
With   its   brother  clouds ;   it  is  Agio- 

chook, 
There  if  you  seek  not,  and  gone  if  you 

look, 
Ninety  miles  off  as  the  eagle  flies. 

But  mountains  make  not  all  the  shore 
The  main-land  shows  to  Appledore  ; 
Eight  miles  the  heaving  water  spreads 
To  a  long  low  coast  with  beaches  and 

heads 
That  run  through  unimagined  mazes, 
As  the  lights  and  shades  and  magical 

hazes 
Put  them  away  or  bring  them  near, 
Shimmering,    sketched   out    for   thirty 

miles 
Between   two    capes    that    waver  like 

threads, 
And  sink  in  the  ocean,  and  reappear, 
Crumbled  and  melted  to  little  isles, 
With  filmy  trees,  that  seem  the  mere 
Half-fancies  of  drowsy  atmosphere ; 


PICTURES  FROM  APPLEDORE. 


393 


And  see  the  beach  there,  where  it  is 
Flat   as  a  threshing-floor,   beaten  and 

packed 
With   the   flashing  flails  of  weariless 

seas, 
How  it  lifts  and  looms  to  a  precipice, 
O'er  whose  square  front,  a  dream,  no 

more, 
The   steepened    sand-stripes   seem  to 

pour, 
A  murmurless  vision  of  cataract ; 
You  almost  fancy  you  hear  a  roar, 
Fitful  and  faint  from  the  distance  wan- 
dering ; 
But  't  is  only  the  blind  old  ocean  maun- 
dering, 
Raking  the  shingle  to  and  fro, 
Aimlessly  clutching  and  letting  go 
The  kelp-haired  sedges  of  Appledore, 
Slipping  down  with  a  sleepy  forgetting, 
And  anon  his  ponderous  shoulder  set- 
ting. 
With  a  deep,  hoarse  pant  against  Ap- 
pledore. 

IV. 

Eastward  as  far  as  the  eye  can  see, 
Still  eastward,  eastward,  endlessly, 
The  sparkle  and  tremor  of  purple  sea 
That  rises  before  you,  a  flickering  hill, 
On  and  on  to  the  shut  of  the  sky, 
And  beyond,  you  fancy  it  sloping  until 
The  same  multitudinous  throb  and  thrill 
That  vibrate  under  your  dizzy  eye 
In  ripples  of  orange  and  pink  are  sent 
Where  the  poppied  sails  doze  on  the 

yard, 
And  the  clumsy  junk  and  proa  lie 
Sunk  deep  with   precious  woods  and 

nard, 
'Mid  the  palmy  isles  of  the  Orient. 
Those    leaning    towers    of    clouded 
white 
On  the  farthest  brink  of  doubtful  ocean, 
That  shorten  and  shorten  out  of  sight, 
Yet  seem  on  the  selfsame  spot  to  stay, 
Receding  with  a  motionless  motion, 
Fading  to  dubious  films  of  gray, 
Lost,     dimly     found,     then     vanished 

wholly, 
Will  rise  again,  the  great  world  under, 
First   films,   then    towers,   then  high- 
heaped  clouds, 


Whose  nearing  outlines  sharpen  slowy 
Into  tall  ships  with  cobweb  shrouds, 
That  fill  long  Mongol  eyes  with  wonder, 
Crushing  the  violet  wave  to  spray 
Past  some  low  headland  of  Cathay  ;  — 
What  was  that  sigh  which  seemed  so 

near, 
Chilling  your  fancy  to  the  core? 
'T  is  only  the  sad  old  sea  you  hear, 
That  seems  to  seek  forevermore 
Something  it  cannot  find,  and  so, 
Sighing,  seeks  on,  and  tells  its  woe 
To  the  pitiless  breakers  of  Appledore. 

V. 

How  looks  Appledore  in  a  storm  ? 
I  have  seen  it  when  its  crags  seemed 

frantic, 
Butting  against  the  mad  Atlantic, 
When    surge    on    surge    would    heap 
enorme, 
Cliffs  of  emerald  topped  with  snow, 
That  lifted  and  lifted,  and  then  let  go 
A  great  white  avalanche  of  thunder, 
A  grinding,  blinding,  deafening  ire 
Monadnock  might  have  trembled  under; 
And  the   island,    whose     rock-roots 

pierce  below 
To  where  they  are  warmed  with  the 
central  fire, 
You  could  feel  its  granite  fibres  racked, 
As  it  seemed  to  plunge  with  a  shud- 
der and  thrill 
Right  at  the  breast  of  the  swooping 
hill, 
And  to  rise  again  snorting  a  cataract 
Of  rage-froth  from  every   cranny   and 
ledge, 
While   the   sea  drew   its   breath    in 
hoarse  and  deep, 
And  the  next  vast  breaker  curled  its 
edge, 
Gathering  itself  for  a  mightier  leap. 

North,  east,  and  south  there  are  reefs 
and  breakers 
You  would  never  dream  of  in  smooth 
weather, 
That  toss  and  gore  the  sea  for  acres, 
Bellowing  and  gnashing  and  snarling 
together  ; 
Look  northward,  where  Duck   Island 
lies, 


394 


PICTURES  FROM  APPLEDORE. 


And  over  its  crown  you  will  see  arise, 
Against  a  background  of  slaty  skies, 
A  row  of  pillars  still  and  white, 
That   glimmer,  and  then  are   out  of 
sight, 
As  if  the  moon  should  suddenly  kiss, 
While  you  crossed  the  gusty  desert 
by  night, 
The  long  colonnades  of  Persepolis  ; 
Look  southward  for  White  Island  light, 
The  lantern   stands  ninety  feet  o'er 
the  tide  ; 
There  is  first  a  half-mile  of  tumult  and 

fight, 
Of  dash  and  roar  and  tumble  and  fright, 
And  surging  bewilderment  wild  and 
wide, 
Where  the  breakers  struggle  left  and 
right, 
Then  a  mile  or  more  of  rushing  sea, 
And  then  the  light-house  slim  and  lone  ; 
And  whenever  the  weight  of  ocean  is 

thrown 
Full  and  fair  on  White  Island  head, 
A  great  mist-jotun  you  will  see 
Lifting  himself  up  silently 
High  and  huge  o'er  the  light-house  top, 
With    hands  of  wavering   spray   out- 
spread, 
Groping  after  the  little  tower, 
That  seems  to  shrink  and  shorten  and 
cower, 
Till  the  monster's  arms  of  a  sudden 
drop, 
And  silently  and  fruitlessly 
He  sinks  again  into  the  sea. 

You,  meanwhile,  where  drenched  you 
stand, 
Awaken  once  more  to  the  rush  and 
roar, 
And  on   the  rock-point  tighten  your 

hand, 
As  you  turn  and  see  a  valley  deep, 

That  was  not  there  a  moment  before, 
Suck  rattling  down  between  you  and  a 
heap 
Of  toppling  billow,  whose  instant  fall 
Must  sink  the  whole  island  once  for 
all, 
Or  watch  the  silenter,  stealthier  seas 
Feeling  their  way  to  you  more  and 
more ; 
If  they  once  should  clutch  you  high  as 
the  knees, 


They  would  whirl  you  down  like  a  sprig 

of  kelp, 
Beyond  all  reach  of  hope  or  help  ;  — 
And  such  in  a  storm  is  Appledore. 

VI. 

'T  is  the  sight  of  a  lifetime  to  behold 
The  great  shorn  sun  as  you  see  it  now, 
Across  eight  miles  of  undulant  gold 
That   widens  landward,    weltered  and 

rolled, 
With  freaks  of  shadow  and  crimson 

stains ; 
To  see  the  solid  mountain  brow 
As  it  notches  the  disk,  and  gains  and 

gains 
Until   there  comes,  you  scarce   know 

when, 
A  tremble  of  fire  o'er  the  parted  lips 
Of  cloud   and   mountain,   which   van- 
ishes, —  then 
From  the  body   of  day  the  sun-soui 

slips 
And  the  face  of  earth  darkens  ;  but  no~v 

the  strips 
Of  western  vapor,  straight  and  thin, 
From  which   the  horizon's   swervings 

win 
A  grace  of  contrast,  take  fire  and  burn 
Like    splinters  of   touchwood,   whose 

edges  a  mould 
Of  ashes  o'erfeathers  ;  northward  turn 
For  an  instant,  and  let  your  eye  grow 

cold 
On  Agamenticus,  and  when  once  more 
You  look,  't  is  as  if  the   land-breeze, 

growing. 
From  the  smouldering  brands  the  film 

were  blowing, 
And  brightening  them  down  to  the  very 

core  ; 
Yet  they  momently  cool  and   dampen 

and  deaden, 
The  crimson   turns  golden,   the    gold 

turns  leaden, 
Hardening  into  one  black  bar 
O'er   which,  from   the   hollow  heaven 

afar, 
Shoots  a  splinter  of  light  like  diamond, 
Half  seen,  half  fancied  ;  by  and  by 
Beyond  whatever  is  most  beyond 
In  the  uttermost  waste  of  desert  sky, 
Grows  a  star ; 
And  over  it,  visible  spirit  of  dew,  — 


PICTURES  FROM  APPLEDORE.  — THE    WIND-HARP.     39S 


Ah,  stir  not,    speak    not,   hold  your 

breath, 
Or  surely  the  miracle  vanisheth,  — 
The  new  moon,  tranced  in  unspeakable 

blue  ! 
No  frail  illu>.ion  ;  this  were  true, 
Rather,  to  call  it  the  canoe 
Hollowed  out  of  a  single  pearl, 
That  floats  us  from  the  Present's  whirl 
Back  to  those  beings  which  were  ours, 
When  wishes  were  winged  things  like 

powers  ! 
Call  it  not  light,  that  mystery  tender, 
Which  broods  upon  the  brooding  ocean, 
That  flush  of  ecstasied  surrender 
To  indefinable  emotion, 
That  glory,  mellower  than  a  mist 
Of  pearl  dissolved  with  amethyst, 
Which   rims   Square   Rock,  like   what' 

they  paint 
Of  mitigated  heavenly  splendor 
Round  the  stern  forehead  of  a  Saint  ! 

No  more  a  vision,  reddened,  largened, 
The  moon  dips  toward  her  mountain 

nest, 
And,  fringing  it  with  palest  argent, 
Slow  sheathes  herself  behind  the  mar- 
gent 
Of  that  long  cloud-bar  in  the  West, 
Whose  nether  edge,  erelong,  you  see 
The  silvery  chrism  in  turn  anoint, 
And  then  the  tiniest  rosy  point 
Touched  doubtfully  and  timidly 
Into  the  dark  blue's  chilly  strip, 
As  some  mute,  wondering  thing  below, 
Awakened  by  the  thrilling  glow, 
Might,  looking  up,  see  Dian  dip 
One  lucent  foot's  delaying  tip 
In  Latmian  fountains  long  ago. 

Knew  you  what  silence  was  before? 
Here  is  no  startle  of  dreaming  bird 
That  sings  in  his  sleep,  or  strives  to  sing ; 
Here  is  no  sough  of  branches  stirred, 
Nor  noise  of  any  living  thing, 
Such  as  one  hears  by  night  on  shore  ; 
Only,  now  and  then,  a  sigh, 
With  fickle  intervals  between, 
Sometimes  far,  and  sometimes  nigh, 
Such  as  Andromeda  might  have  heard, 
And  fancied  the  huge  sea-beast  unseen 
Turning  in  sleep  ;  it  is  the  sea 
That  welters  and  wavers  uneasily 
Round  the  Unely  reefs  of  Apcledore. 


THE   WIND-HARP. 

I  treasure  in  secret  some  long,  fine 

hair 
Of  tenderest  brown,  but  so  inwardly 

golden 
I  half  used  to  fancy  the  sunshine  there, 
So  shy,  so  shifting,  so  waywardly  rare, 
Was  only  caught  for  the  moment  and 

holden 
While  I  could  say  Dearest !  and  kiss 

it,  and  then 
In  pity  let  go  to  the  summer  again. 

I  twisted  this  magic  in  gossamer  strings 

Over  a  wind-harp's  Delphian  hollow ; 

Then   called  to   the   idle   breeze   that 

swings 
All  day  in  the  pine-tops,  and  clings,  and 

sings 
'Mid  the  musical  leaves,  and  said,  "  O, 

follow 
The  will  of  those  tears  that  deepen  my 

words, 
And  fly  to  my  window  to  waken  these 

chords." 

So  they  trembled  to  life,  and,  doubt- 
fully 
Feeling  their  way  to  my  sense,  sang, 
"  Say  whether 

They  sit  all  day  by  the  greenwood  tree, 

The  lover  and  loved,  as  it  wont  to  be, 
When     we  "  but     grief    con- 
quered, and  all  together 

They  swelled   such  weird  murmur  as 
haunts  a  shore 

Of  some  planet  dispeopled,  —  "  Never- 
more ! " 

Then  from  deep  in  the  past,  as  seemed 

to  me, 
The  strings  gathered  sorrow  and  sang 

forsaken, 
"  One  lover  still  waits  'neath  the  green- 
wood tree, 
But  *t  is  dark,"  and   they   shuddered, 

"  where  lieth  she 
Dark  and  cold  !     Forever  must  one 

be  taken  ?  " 
But  I  groaned,  "  O   harp  of  all  ruth 

bereft, 
This  Scripture  is  sadder,  —  '  the  othel 

left '  1 " 


396 


A  UF  IVIEDERSEHEN.  —  PALINODE. 


There   murmured,  as  if  one  strove  to 

speak, 
And  tears  came  instead  ;  then  the  sad 

tones  wandered 
And    faltered    among    the     uncertain 

chords 
In  a  troubled  doubt  between  sorrow  and 

words  ; 
At  last  with  themselves   they  ques- 
tioned and  pondered, 
"  Hereafter?  —  who  knoweth  ?  "  and  so 

they  sighed 
Down  the  long  steps  that  lead  to  silence 

and  died. 


AUF  WIEDERSEHEN  ! 


The  little  gate  was  reached  at  last, 
Half  hid  in  lilacs  down  the  lane  ; 
She  pushed  it  wide,  and,  as  she  past, 
A  wistful  look  she  backward  cast, 
And  said,  —  "  Au/ wiedersehen  !  " 

With  hand  on  latch,  a  vision  white 

Lingered  reluctant,  and  again 
Half  doubting  if  she  did  aright, 
Soft  as  the  dews  that  felt  that  night. 
She  said,  —  "  A  uf  wiedersehen  !  " 

The  lamp's  clear  gleam  fl  its  up  the  stair ; 

I  linger  in  delicious  pain  ; 
Ah,  in  that  chamber,  whose  rich  air 
To  breathe  in  thought  I  scarcely  dare, 

Thinks  she,  —  "  A  uj  wiedersehen  !  " 

T  is  thirteen  years  ;  once  more  I  press 

The  turf  that  silences  the  lane  ; 
I  hear  the  rustle  of  her  dress, 
I  smell  the  lilacs,  and  —  ah,  yes, 
I  hear  "  Auf  wiederseheH  !  " 

Sweet  piece  of  bashful  maiden  art ! 

The  English  words  had  seemed  too 
fain, 
But  these  —  they  drew  us  heart  to  heart, 
Yet  held  us  tenderly  apart  ; 

She  said,  "  Auf  wiedersehen  !  " 


PALINODE. 


Still  thirteen  years  :  't  is  autumn  now 
On  field  and  hill,  in  heart  and  brain  ; 

The  naked  trees  at  evening  sough  ; 

The  leaf  to  the  forsaken  bough 
Sighs  not,  —  "  We  meet  again  !  " 

Two    watched    yon    oriole's    pendent 
dome, 
That  now  is  void,  and  dank  with  rain, 
And  one,  —  O,  hope  more  frail   than 

foam  ! 
The  bird  to  his  deserted  home 
Sings  not,  —  "  We  meet  again  !  " 

The  loath  gate  swings  with  rusty  creak  ; 

Once,  parting  there,   we  played  at 
pain  : 
There  came  a  parting,  when  the  weak 
And  fading  lips  essayed  to  speak 

Vainly,  —  "  We  meet  again  !  " 

Somewhere  is  comfort,  somewhere  faith, 
Though  thou  in  outer  dark  remain  ; 
One  sweet  sad  voice  ennobles  death, 
And  still,  for  eighteen  centuries  saith 
Softly,  —  Ye  meet  again  I  " 

If  earth  another  grave  must  bear, 

Yet  heaven  hath  won  a  sweeter  strain, 
And  something  whispers  my  despair, 
That,  from  an  orient  chamber  there, 
Floats  down,  "  We  meet  again  1  " 


AFTER  THE  BURIAL. 

Yes,  faith  is  a  goodly  anchor  ; 
When  skies  are  sweet  as  a  psalm, 
At  the  bows  it  lolls  so  stalwart, 
In  bluff,  broad-shouldered  calm. 

And  when  over  breakers  to  leeward 
The  tattered  surges  are  hurled, 
It  may  keep  our  head  to  the  tempest, 
With  its  grip  on  the  base  of  the  world 

But,  after  the  shipwreck,  tell  me 
What  help  in  its  iron  thews, 
Still  true  to  the  broken  hawser, 
Deep  down  among  sea-weed  and  ooze  ? 


AFTER    THE   BURIAL.— THE   DEAD  HOUSE. 


397 


In  the  breaking  gulfs  of  sorrow, 
When  the  helpless  feet  stretch  out 
And  find  in  the  deeps  of  darkness 
No  footing  so  solid  as  doubt, 

Then  better  one  spar  of  Memory, 
One  broken  plank  of  the  Past, 
That  our  human  heart  may  cling  to, 
Though  hopeless  of  shore  at  last ! 

To  the  spirit  its  splendid  conjectures, 
To  the  flesh  its  sweet  despair, 
Its  tears  o'er  the  thin- worn  locket 
With  its  anguish  of  deathless  hair  ! 

Immortal  ?    I  feel  it  and  know  it, 
Who  doubts  it  of  such  as  she  ? 
But  that  is  the  pang's  very  secret,  — 
Immortal  away  from  me. 

There  's  a  narrow  ridge  in  the  grave- 
yard 
Would  scarce  stay  a  child  in  his  race, 
But  to  me  and  my  thought  it  is  wider 
Than  the  star-sown  vague  of  Space. 

Your  logic,  my  friend,  is  perfect, 
Your  morals  most  drearily  true  ; 
But,  since   the   earth  clashed  on  her 

coffin, 
I  keep  hearing  that,  and  not  you. 

Console  if  you  will,  I  can  bear  it ; 
'T  is  a  well-meant  alms  of  breath  ; 
But  not  all  the  preaching  since  Adam 
Has  made  Death  other  than  Death. 

It  is  pagan  ;  but  wait  till  you  feel  it,  — 
That  jar  of  our  earth,  that  dull  shock 
When  the  ploughshare  of  deeper  pas- 
sion 
Tears  down  to  our  primitive  rock. 

Communion  in  spirit !     Forgive  me, 
But  I,  who  am  earthy  and  weak, 
Would  give  all  my  incomes  from  dream- 
land 
For  a  touch  of  her  hand  on  my  cheek. 

That  little  shoe  in  the  corner, 
So  worn  and  wrinkled  and  brown, 
With  its  emptiness  confutes  you, 
And  argues  your  wisdom  down. 


THE  DEAD  HOUSE. 

Here  once  my  step  was  quickened. 
Here  beckoned  the  opening  door, 

And  welcomethrilled  from  the  threshold 
To  the  foot  it  had  known  before. 

A  glow  came  forth  to  meet  me 

From  the  flame  that  laughed  in  the 
grate, 

And  shadows  adance  on  the  ceiling, 
Danced  blither  with  mine  for  a  mate. 

"  I  claim  you,  old  friend,"  yawned  the 
arm-chair, 
"  This    corner,   you  know,  is    your 
seat "  : 
"  Rest  your  slippers  on  me,"  beamed 
the  fender, 
"  I  brighten  at  touch  of  your  feet." 

"  We  know  the  practised  finger," 
Said   the   books,   "  that  seems  like 
brain"  ; 

And  the  shy  page  rustled  the  secret 
It  had  kept  till  I  came  again. 

Sang    the   pillow,    "  My    down    once 
quivered 

On  nightingales'  throats  that  flew 
Through  moonlit  gardens  of  Hafiz 

To  gather  quaint  dreams  for  you." 

Ah  me,  where  the  Past  sowed  heart's- 
ease, 

The  Present  plucks  rue  for  us  men  ! 
I  come  back  :  that  scar  unhealing 

Was  not  in  the  churchyard  then. 

But,  I  think,  the  house  is  unaltered, 

I  will  go  and  beg  to  look 
At  the  rooms  that  were  once  familiar 

To  my  life  as  its  bed  to  a  brook. 

Unaltered  !     Alas  for  the  sameness 
That  makes  the  change  but  more  ! 

'T  is  a  dead  man  I  see  in  the  mirrors, 
'T  is  his  tread  that  chills  the  floor  1 

To  learn  such  a  simple  lesson, 
Need  I  go  to  Paris  and  Rome, 

That  the  many  make  the  household, 
But  only  one  the  home  ? 


398 


A    MOOD.  — THE    VOYAGE    TO   V r INLAND. 


'T  was  just  a  womanly  presence, 

An  influence  unexprest, 
But  a  rose  she  had  worn,  on  my  grave- 
sod 
Were   more  than  long  life  with  the 
rest  ! 

'T  was  a  smile,   't   was  a  garment's 
rustle, 
'T  was  nothing  that  I  can  phrase, 
But  the  whole    dumb  dwelling  grew 
conscious, 
And  put  on  her  looks  and  ways. 

Were  it  mine  I  would  close  the  shutters, 
Like  lids  when  the  life  is  fled, 

And  the  funeral  fire  should  wind  it, 
This  corpse  of  a  home  that  is  dead. 

For  it  died  that  autumn  morning 
When  she,  its  soul,  was  borne 

To  lie  all  dark  on  the  hillside 

That  looks  over  woodland  and  corn. 


A   MOOD. 

Pine  in  the  distance, 
Patient  through  sun  or  rain, 
Meeting  with  graceful  persistence, 
With  yielding  but  rooted  resistance, 
The  northwind's  wrench  and  strain, 
No  memory  of  past  existence 
Brings  thee  pain  ; 
Right  for  the  zenith  heading, 
Friendly  with  heat  or  cold, 
Thine  arms  to  the  influence  spreading 
Of  the  heavens,  just  from  of  old, 
Thou  only  aspirest  the  more, 
Unregretful  the  old  leaves  shedding 
That  fringed  thee  with  music  before, 
And  deeper  thy  roots  embedding 
In  the  grace  and  the  beauty  of  yore  ; 
Thou  sigh'st  not,  "  Alas,  I  am  older, 
The  green  of  last  summer  is  sear  I  " 
But  loftier,  hopefuller,  bolder, 
Wins  broader  horizons  each  year. 

To  me  't  is  not  cheer  thou  art  singing  : 

There  's  a  sound  of  the  sea, 

O  mournful  tree, 

In  thy  boughs  forever  clinging, 

And  the  far-off  roar 


ths 


Of  waves  on  the  shore 

A  shattered  vessel  flinging. 

As  thou  musest  still  of  the  ocean 

On  which  thou  must  float  at  last, 

And  seem'st  to  foreknow 

The  shipwreck's  woe 

And    the    sailor   wrenched    from 

broken  mast, 
Do  I,  in  this  vague  emotion, 
This  sadness  that  will  not  pass, 
Though  the  air  throbs  with  wings, 
And  the  field  laughs  and  sings, 
Do  I  forebode,  alas  ! 
The  ship-building  longer  and  wearier, 
The  voyage's  struggle  and  strife, 
And  then  the  darker  and  drearier 
Wreck  of  a  broken  life  ? 


THE  VOYAGE  TO  VINLAND 


BIORN  S    BECKONERS. 

Now  Biorn,  the  son  of  Heriulf,  had  ill 

days 
Because  the  heart  within  him  seethed 

with  blood 
That  would   not  be  allayed  with  any 

toil, 
Whether  of  war  or  hunting  or  the  oar, 
But  was  anhungered  for  some  joy  un- 
tried : 
For  the  brain  grew  not  weary  with  the 

limbs, 
But,  while  they  slept,  still  hammered 

like  a  Troll, 
Building   all   night  a  bridge   of   solid 

dream 
Between  him  and  some  purpose  of  his 

soul, 
Or  will  to  find  a  purpose.     With  the 

dawn 
The  sleep-laid    timbers,   crumbled  to 

soft  mist, 
Denied  all  foothold.     But  the   dream 

remained, 
And  every  night  with  yellow-bearded 

kings 
His  sleep  was  haunted,  — mighty  men 

of  old, 


THE    VOYAGE    TO    V INLAND. 


399 


Once  young  as  he,  now  ancient  like  the 

gods, 
And  safe  as  stars  in  all  men's  memories. 
Strange  sagas  read  he  in  their  sea-blue 

eyes 
Cold  as  the  sea,   grandly  compassion- 
less  ; 
Like   life,  they  made   him   eager  and 

then  mocked. 
Nay,  broad  awake,  they  would  not  let 

him  be ; 
They  shaped  themselves  gigantic  in  the 

mist, 
They  rose  far-beckoning  in  the  lamps 

of  heaven. 
They  whispered  invitation  in  the  winds, 
And  breath  came  from  them,  mightier 

than  the  wind, 
To  strain  the  lagging  sails  of  his  resolve, 
Till  that  grew  passion  which  before  was 

wish, 
And  youth  seemed  all  too  costly  to  be 

staked 
On   the  soiled    cards  wherewith   men 

played  their  game, 
Letting  Time  pocket  up  the  larger  life, 
Lost  with  base  gain  of  raiment,  food, 

and  roof. 
"What  helpeth  lightness  of  the  feet?" 

tljey  said, 
"  Oblivion  runs  with  swifter  foot  than 

they  ; 
Or  strength  of  sinew  ?    New  men  come 

as  strong, 
And  those  sleep  nameless ;  or  renown 

in  war? 
Swords  grave  no  name  on  the  long- 

memoried  rock 
But  moss  shall  hide  it ;  they  alone  who 

wring 
Some  secret  purpose  from  the  unwilling 

gods 
Survive  in  song  for  yef  a  .lttle  while 
To  vex,  like  us,  the  dreams  of  later  men, 
Ourselves  a  dream,  and  dreamlike  all 

we  did." 

II. 

thorwald's  lay. 

So  Biom  went  comfortless  but  for  his 
thought, 

And  by  his  thought  the  more  discom- 
forted, 


Till  Eric  Thurlson  kept  his  Yule-tide 

feast : 
And  thither  came  he,  called  among  the 

rest, 
Silent,  lone-minded,  a  church-door  to 

mirth : 
But,    ere  deep  draughts   forbade   such 

serious  song 
As  the  grave  Skald   might  chant,  nor 

after  blush, 
Then  Eric  looked  at  Thorwald,  where 

he  sat, 
Mute  as  a  cloud  amid  the  stormy  hall, 
And   said :    "  O    Skald,   sing   now   an 

olden  song, 
Such  as  our  fathers  heard  who  led  great 

lives ; 
And,  as  the  bravest  on  a  shield  is  borne 
Along  the  waving  host  that  shouts  him 

king, 
So  rode  their  thrones  upon  the  throng- 
ing seas ! " 
Then  the  old  man  arose  ;  white-haired 

he  stood, 
White-bearded,    and    with    eyes    that 

looked  afar 
From   their  still   region   of  perpetual 

snow, 
Beyond  the  little  smokes  and  stirs  of 

men : 
His  head  was    bowed  with  gathered 

flakes  of  years, 
As  winter    bends    the   sea-foreboding 

pine, 
But  something  triumphed  in  his  brow 

and  eye, 
Which  whoso  saw  it  could  not  see  and 

crouch : 
Loud  rang  the  emptied  beakers  as  he 

mused, 
Brooding  his  eyried  thoughts ;  then,  as 

an  eagle 
Circles  smooth-winged  above  the  wind- 
vexed  woods, 
So  wheeled  his  soul  into  the  air  of  song 
High  o'er  the  stormy  hall ;  and  thus  he 

sang  : 
"  The  fletcher  for  his  arrow-shaft  picks 

out 
Wood  closest-grained,    long-seasoned, 

straight  as  light ; 
And  from  a  quiver  full  of  such  as  these 
The  wary  bowman,  matched  against  hii 

peers, 


4<x> 


THE    VOYAGE    TO    V INLAND. 


Long  doubting,  singles  yet  once  more 

the  best. 
Who  is  it  needs  such  flawless  shafts  as 

Fate? 
What  archer  of  his  arrows  is  so  choice, 
Or  hits  the  white  so  surely?    They  are 

men, 
The  chosen  of  her  quiver  ;  nor  for  her 
Will  every  reed  suffice,  or  cross-grained 

stick 
At  random    from    life's    vulgar    fagot 

plucked  : 
Such  answer  household  ends  ;  but  she 

will  have 
Souls  straight  and  clear,  of   toughest 

fibre,  sound 
Down  to  the  heart  of  heart ;  from  these 

she  strips 
All  needless  stuff,  all  sapwood,  seasons 

them, 
From  circumstance  untoward  feathers 

plucks 
Crumpled  and  cheap,   and  barbs  with 

iron  will : 
The  hour  that  passes  is  her  quiver-boy  : 
When  she  draws  bow,  't  is  not  across 

the  wind, 
Nor  'gainst  the  sun  her  haste-snatched 

arrow  sings, 
For  sun  and  wind  have  plighted  faith  to 

her  : 
Ere  men  have  heard  the  sinew  twang, 

behold 
In  the  butt's  heart  her  trembling  mes- 
senger ! 

"The  song   is  old  and  simple  that  I 

sing; 
But  old  and  simple   are  despised  as 

cheap, 
Though  hardest  to  achieve  of  human 

things : 
Good  were  the  days  of  yore,  when  men 

were  tried 
By  ring  of  shields,  as  now  by  ring  of 

words  ; 
But  while  the  gods  are  left,  and  hearts 

of  men, 
And  unlocked  ocean,  still  the  days  are 

good. 
Still  o'er  the  earth  hastes  Opportunity, 
Seeking  the  hardy  soul  that  seeks  for 

her. 
Be  not  abroad,  nor  deaf  with  household 

cares 


That  chatter  loudest  as  they  mean  the 

least ; 
Swift-willed  is  thrice-willed  ;  late  means 

nevermore  ; 
Impatient  is  her  foot,  nor  turns  again." 

He  ceased ;   upon  his  bosom  sank  his 

beard 
Sadly,  as  one  who  oft  had  seen  her  pass 
Nor  stayed    her :    and    forthwith    the 

frothy  tide 
Of  interrupted  wassail  roared  along ; 
But  Biorn,  the  son  of  Heriulf,  sat  apart 
Musing,  and,  with  his  eyes  upon  the  tire, 
Saw  shapes  of  arrows,  lost  as  soon  as 

seen. 
"A  ship,"  he  muttered,  "is  a  winged 

bridge 
That  leadeth  every  way  to  man's  desire, 
And   ocean   the   wide  gate   to  manful 

luck"; 
And  then  with  that  resolve  his  heart 

was  bent, 
Which,  like  a  humming  shaft,  through 

many  a  stripe 
Of  day  and  night,   across  the  unpath- 

wayed  seas 
Shot  the  brave  prow  that  cut  on  Vinland 

sands 
The  first  rune  in  the  Saga  of  the  West. 

III. 

gudrida's  prophecy. 

Four  weeks  they  sailed,  a  speck  in  sky- 
shut  seas, 
Life,  where  was  never  life  that  knew 

itself, 
But   tumbled    lubber-like    in   blowing 

whales ; 
Thought,  where  the  like  had  never  been 

before 
Since  Thought  primeval  brooded  the 

abyss; 
Alone  as  men  were  never  in  the  world. 
They  saw  the  icy  foundlings  of  the  sea, 
White  cliffs  of  silence,  beautiful  by  day, 
Or  looming,  sudden-perilous,  at  night 
In  monstrous  hush  ;   or  sometimes   in 

the  dark 
The  waves  broke  ominous  with  paly 

gleams 
Crushed  by  the  prow  in   sparkles  o/ 

cold  fire. 


THE    VOYAGE    TO    V INLAND. 


401 


Then  came  green  stripes  of  sea  that 
promised  land 

But  brought  it  not,  and  on  the  thirtieth 
day 

Low  in  the  West  were  wooded  shores 
like  cloud. 

They  shouted  as  men  shout  with  sud- 
den hope ; 

But  Biorn  was  silent,  such  strange  loss 
there  is 

Between  the  dream's  fulfilment  and  the 
dream, 

Such  sad  abatement  in  the  goal  attained. 

Then  Gudrida,  that  was  a  prophetess, 

Rapt  with  strange  influence  from  At- 
lantis sang  : 

Per  words  :  the  vision  was  the  dream- 
ing shore's. 

Looms  there  the  New  Land  : 
Locked  in  the  shadow 
Long  the  gods  shut  it, 
Niggards  of  newness 
They,  the  o'er-old. 

Little  it  looks  there, 
Slim  as  a  cloud-streak  ; 
It  shall  fold  peoples 
Even  as  a  shepherd 
Foldeth  his  flock. 

Silent  it  sleeps  now  ; 
Great  ships  shall  seek  it, 
Swarming  as  salmon  ; 
Noise  of  its  numbers 
Two  seas  shall  hear. 

Men  from  the  Northland, 
Men  from  the  Southland, 
Haste  empty-handed  ; 
No  more  than  manhood 
Bring  they,  and  hands. 

Dark  hair  and  fair  hair, 
Red  blood  and  blue  blood, 
There  shall  be  mingled  ; 
Force  of  the  ferment 
Makes  the  New  Man. 

Pick  of  all  kindreds, 
King's  blood  shall  theirs  be, 
Shoots  of  the  eldest 
Stock  upon  Midgard, 
Sons  of  the  poor. 

26 


Them  waits  the  New  Land  ; 
They  shall  subdue  it, 
Leaving  their  sons'  sons 
Space  for  the  body, 
Space  for  the  soul. 

Leaving  their  sons'  sons 
All  things  save  song-craft, 
Plant  long  in  growing, 
Thrusting  its  tap-root 
Deep  in  the  Gone. 

Here  men  shall  grow  up 
Strong  from  self-helping  ; 
Eyes  for  the  present 
Bring  they  as  eagles', 
Blind  to  the  Past. 

They  shall  make  over 
Creed,  law,  and  custom  ; 
Driving-men,  doughty 
Builders  of  empire, 
Builders  of  men. 

Here  are  no  singers ; 
What  should  they  sing  of? 
They,  the  unresting? 
Labor  is  ugly, 
Loathsome  is  change. 

Those  the  old  gods  hate, 
Dwellers  in  dream-land, 
Drinking  delusion 
Out  of  the  empty 
Skull  of  the  Past. 

These  hate  the  old  gods, 
Warring  against  them ; 
Fatal  to  Odin, 
Here  the  wolf  Fenrir 
Lieth  in  wait. 

Here  the  gods'  Twilight 
Gathers,  earth-gulfing ; 
Blackness  of  battle, 
Fierce  till  the  Old  World 
Flares  up  in  fire. 

Doubt  not,  my  Northmen  ; 
Fate  loves  the  fearless  ; 
Fools,  when  their  roof-tree 
Falls,  think  it  doomsday  ; 
Firm  stands  the  sky. 


4°« 


MA H MOOD    THE  IMAGE-BREAKER. 


Over  the  ruin 
See  I  the  promise  ; 
Crisp  waves  the  cornfield, 
Peace-walled,  the  homestead 
Waits  open-doored. 

There  lies  the  New  Land  ; 
Yours  to  behold  it, 
Not  to  possess  it ; 
Slowly  Fate's  perfect 
Fulness  shall  come. 

Then  from  your  strong  loins 
Seed  shall  be  scattered, 
Men  to  the  marrow, 
Wilderness  tamers, 
Walkers  of  waves. 

Jealous,  the  old  gods 
Shut  it  in  shadow, 
Wisely  they  ward  it, 
Egg  of  the  serpent, 
Bane  to  them  all. 

Stronger  and  sweeter 
New  gods  shall  seek  it 
Fill  it  with  man-folk 
Wise  for  the  future. 
Wise  from  the  past. 

Here  all  is  all  men's, 
Save  only  Wisdom  ; 
King  he  that  wins  her  ; 
Him  hail  they  helmsman, 
Highest  of  heart. 

Might  makes  no  master 
Here  any  longer  ; 
Sword  is  not  swayer  ; 
Here  e'en  the  gods  are 
Selfish  no  more. 

Walking  the  New  Earth, 
Lo,  a  divine  One 
Greets  all  men  godlike, 
Calls  them  his  kindred, 
He,  the  Divine. 

Is  it  Thor's  hammer 
Rays  in  his  right  hand? 
Weaponless  walks  he  ; 
It  is  the  White  Christ, 
Stronger  than  Thor. 


Here  shall  a  realm  rise 
Mighty  in  manhood  ; 
Justice  and  Mercy 
Here  set  a  stronghold 
Safe  without  spear. 

Weak  was  the  Old  World, 
Wearily  war-fenced  ; 
Out  of  its  ashes, 
Strong  as  the  morning, 
Springeth  the  New. 

Beauty  of  promise, 
Promise  of  beauty, 
Safe  in  the  silence 
Sleep  thou,  till  cometh 
Light  to  thy  lids  ! 

Thee  shall  awaken 
Flame  from  the  furnace, 
Bath  of  all  brave  ones, 
Cleanser  of  conscience, 
Welder  of  will. 

Lowly  shall  love  thee, 
Thee,  open-handed  ! 
Stalwart  shall  shield  thee, 
Thee,  worth  their  best  blood, 
Waif  of  the  West  1 

Then  shall  come  singers, 
Singing  no  swan-song, 
Birth-carols,  rather, 
Meet  for  the  man  child 
Mighty  of  bone. 


MAHMOOD  THE  IMAGE- 
BREAKER. 

Old  events  have  modern   meanings ; 

only  that  survives 
Of  past  history  which  finds  kindred  in 

all  hearts  and  lives. 

Mahmood     once,     the     idol-breaker, 

spreader  of  the  Faith, 
Was  at  Sumnat  tempted  sorely,  as  the 

legend  saith. 

In  the  great  pagoda's  centre,  monstrous 

and  abhorred, 
Granite  on  a  throne  of  granite,  sat  the 

temple's  lord. 


INVITA    MINERVA. 


4°3 


Mahmood  paused  a  moment,  silenced 

by  the  silent  face 
That,  with  eyes  of  stone  unwavering, 

awed  the  ancient  place. 

Then  the  Brahmins  knelt  before  him, 
by  his  doubt  made  bold, 

Pledging  for  their  idol's  ransom  count- 
less gems  and  gold. 

Gold  was  yellow  dirt  to  Mahmood,  but 

of  precious  use, 
Since  from  it  the  roots  of  power  suck 

a  potent  juice. 

"Were  yon  stone  alone  in  question, 
this  would  please  me  well," 

Mahmood  said  ;  "but,  with  the  block 
there,  I  my  truth  must  sell. 

"  Wealth  and  rule  slip  down  with  For- 
tune, as  her  wheel  turns  round  ; 

He  who  keeps  his  faith,  he  only  cannot 
be  discrowned. 

"  Little  were  a  change  of  station,  loss 

of  life  or  crown, 
But  the  wreck  were  past  retrieving  if 

the  Man  fell  down." 

So  his  iron  mace  he  lifted,  smote  with 
might  and  main, 

And  the  idol,  on  the  pavement  tum- 
bling, burst  in  twain. 

Luck   obeys    the    downright    striker ; 

from  the  hollow  core, 
Fifty  times  the  Brahmins'  offer  deluged 

all  the  floor. 


INVITA    MINERVA. 

The  Bardling  came  where  by  a  river 
grew 

The  pennoned  reeds,  that,  as  the  west- 
wind  blew, 

Gleamed  and  sighed  plaintively,  as  if 
they  knew 

What  music  slept  enchanted  in  each 
stem, 

fill  Pan  should  choose  some  happy  one 
of  them, 

And  with  wise  lips  enlife  it  through  and 
through. 


The  Bardling  thought,  "  A  pipe  is  all 

I  need  ; 
Once  I  have   sought  me  out  a   clear, 

smooth  reed, 
And  shaped  it  to  my  fancy,  I  proceed 
To  breathe  such  strains  as,  yonder 'mid 

the  rocks, 
The   strange   youth   blows,  that  tends 

Admetus'  flocks, 
And  all   the   maidens  will  to  me  pay 

heed." 

The  summer  day  he  spent  in  questful 

round, 
And  many  a  reed  he  marred,  but  never 

found 
A  conjuring-spell  to  free  the  imprisoned 

sound  ; 
At  last  his  vainly  wearied  limbs  he  laid 
Beneath   a    sacred  laurel's    flickering 

shade, 
And  sleep  about  his  brain  her  cobweb 

wound. 

Then  strode  the  mighty  Mother  through 

his  dreams, 
Saying  :  "  The  reeds  along  a  thousand 

streams 
Are  mine,  and  who  is  he  that  plots  and 

schemes 
To  snare  the  melodies  wherewith  my 

breath 
Sounds  through  the  double  pipes  of  Life 

and  Death, 
Atoning  what    to    men    mad    discord 

seems  ? 

"  He  seeks  not  me,  but  I  seek  oft  in 

vain 
For  him  who  shall  my  voiceful  reeds 

constrain, 
And  make  them  utter  their  melodious 

pain  ; 
He  flies  the  immortal  gift,  for  well  he 

knows 
His  life  of  life  must  with  its  overflows 
Flood  the  unthankful  pipe,  nor  come 

again. 

"Thou  fool,   who  dost  my  harmless 

subjects  wrong, 
'T  is  not  the  singer's  wish  that  makes 

the  song  : 
The  rhythmic  beauty  wanders  dumb, 

how  long, 


4°4 


THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH. 


Nor  stoops  to  any  daintiest  instrument, 
Till,  found  its  mated  lips,  their  sweet 

consent 
Makes   mortal  breath  than  Time  and 

Fate  more  strong." 


THE    FOUNTAIN   OF    YOUTH. 
I. 

'T  is  a  woodland  enchanted  t 

By  no  sadder  spirit 

Than  blackbirds  and  thrushes, 

That  whistle  to  cheer  it 

All  day  in  the  bushes, 

This  woodland  is  haunted  : 

And  in  a  small  clearing, 

Beyond  sight  or  hearing 

Of  human  annoyance, 

The  little  fount  gushes, 

First  smoothly,  then  dashes 

And  gurgles  and  flashes, 

To  the  maples  and  ashes 

Confiding  its  joyance ; 

Unconscious  confiding, 

Then,  silent  and  glossy, 

Slips  winding  and  hiding 

Through  alder-stems  mossy, 

Through  gossamer  roots 

Fine  as  nerves, 

That  tremble,  as  shoots 

Through  their  magnetized  curves 

The  allurement  delicious 

Of  the  water's  capricious 

Thrills,  gushes,  and  swerves. 

II. 

'T  is  a  woodland  enchanted  ! 
I  am  writing  no  fiction  ; 
And  this  fount,  its  sole  daughter, 
To  the  woodland  was  granted 
To  pour  holy  water 
And  win  benediction  ; 
In  summer-noon  flushes, 
When  all  the  wood  hushes, 
Blue  dragon-flies  knitting 
To  and  fro  in  the  sun, 
With  sidelong  jerk  flitting 
Sink  down  on  the  rushes, 
And,  motionless  sitting, 
Hear  it  bubble  and  run, 


Hear  its  low  inward  singing, 
With  level  wings  swinging 
On  green  tasselled  rushes, 
To  dream  in  the  sun. 


III. 

'T  is  a  woodland  enchanted  1 

The  great  August  noonlight, 

Through  myriad  rifts  slanted, 

Leaf  and  bole  thickly  sprinkles 

With  flickering  gold  ; 

There,  in  warm  August  gloaming. 

With  quick,  silent  brightenings, 

From  meadow-lands  roaming, 

The  firefly  twinkles 

His  fitful  heat-lightnings  ; 

There  the  magical  moonlight 

With  meek,  saintly  glory 

Steeps  summit  and  wold  ; 

There    whippoorwills    plain   in    the 

solitudes  hoary 
With  lone  cries  that  wander 
Now  hither,  now  yonder, 
Like  souls  doomed  of  old 
To  a  mild  purgatory  ; 
But  through  noonlight  and  moonlight 
The  little  fount  tinkles 
Its  silver  saints'-bells, 
That  no  sprite  ill-boding 
May  make  his  abode  in 
Those  innocent  dells. 

IV. 

'T  is  a  woodland  enchanted  ! 
When  the  phebe  scarce  whistles 
Once  an  hour  to  his  fellow, 
And,  where  red  lilies  flaunted, 
Balloons  from  the  thistles 
Tell  summer's  disasters, 
The  butterflies  yellow, 
As  caught  in  an  eddy 
Of  air's  silent  ocean, 
Sink,  waver,  and  steady 
O'er  goats'-beard  and  asters, 
Like  souls  of  dead  flowers, 
With  aimless  emotion 
Still  lingering  unready 
To  leave  their  old  bowers  ; 
And  the  fount  is  no  dumber, 
But  still  gleams  and  flashes, 
And  gurgles  and  plashes, 
To  the  measure  of  summer  ; 


THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH. 


4°5 


The  butterflies  hear  it, 

And  spell-bound  are  holden, 

Still  balancing  near  it 

O'er  the  goats'-beard  so  golden. 

V. 

'T  is  a  woodland  enchanted  ! 
A  vast  silver  willow, 
I  know  not  how  planted, 
(This  wood  is  enchanted, 
And  full  of  surprises,) 
Stands  stemming  a  billow, 
A  motionless  billow 
Of  ankle-deep  mosses  ; 
Two  great  roots  it  crosses 
To  make  a  round  basin, 
And  there  the  Fount  rises  ; 
Ah,  too  pure  a  mirror 
For  one  sick  of  error 
To  see  his  sad  face  in  ! 
No  dew-drop  is  stiller 
In  its  lupin-leaf  setting 
Than  this  water  moss-bounded  ; 
But  a  tiny  sand-pillar 
From  the  bottom  keeps  jetting, 
And  mermaid  ne'er  sounded 
Through  the  wreaths  of  a  shell, 
Down  amid  crimson  dulses 
In  some  dell  of  ocean, 
A  melody  sweeter 
Than  the  delicate  pulses, 
The  soft,  noiseless  metre 
The  pause  and  the  swell 
Of  that  musical  motion  : 
I  recall  it,  not  see  it  ; 
Could  vision  be  clearer? 
Half  I  'm  fain  to  draw  nearer 
Half  tempted  to  flee  it  ; 
The  sleeping  Past  wake  not, 
Beware ! 

One  forward  step  take  not, 
Ah  !  break  not 
That  quietude  rare  ! 
By  my  step  unaffrighted 
A  thrush  hops  before  it, 
And  o'er  it 

A  birch  hangs  delighted, 
Dipping,  dipping,  dipping  its  tremu- 
lous hair  ; 
Pure  as  the  fountain,  once 
I  came  to  the  place, 
(How  dare  I  draw  nearer?) 
I  bent  o'er  its  mirror, 


And  saw  a  child's  face 

'Mid  locks  of  bright  gold  in  it  ; 

Yes,  pure  as  this  fountain  once,  — 

Since,  how  much  error  1 

Too  holy  a  mirror 

For  the  man  to  behold  in  it 

His  harsh,  bearded  countenance  I 

VI. 

'T  is  a  woodland  enchanted  ! 

Ah,  fly  unreturning  ! 

Yet  stay  ;  — 

'T  is  a  woodland  enchanted, 

Where  wonderful  chances 

Have  sway  ; 

Luck  flees  from  the  cold  one 

But  leaps  to  the  bold  one 

Half-way  ; 

Why  should  I  be  daunted? 

Still  the  smooth  mirror  glances. 

Still  the  amber  sand  dances. 

One  look,  —  then  away  1 

O  magical  glass  I 

Canst  keep  in  thy  bosom 

Shades  of  leaf  and  of  blossom 

When  summer  days  pass, 

So  that  when  thy  wave  hardens 

It  shapes  as  it  pleases, 

Unharmed  by  the  breezes, 

Its  fine  hanging  gardens? 

Hast  those  in  thy  keeping, 

And  canst  not  uncover, 

Enchantedly  sleeping, 

The  old  shade  of  thy  lover? 

It  is  there  !     I  have  found  it  ! 

He  wakes,  the  long  sleeper  ! 

The  pool  is  grown  deeper, 

The  sand  dance  is  ending, 

The  white  floor  sinks,  blending 

With  skies  that  below  me 

Are  deepening  and  bending, 

And  a  child's  face  alone 

That  seems  not  to  know  me, 

With  hair  that  fades  golden 

In  the  heaven-glow  round  it, 

Looks  up  at  my  own  ; 

Ah,  glimpse  through  the  portal 

That  leads  to  the  throne, 

That  opes  the  child's  olden 

Regions  Elysian  ! 

Ah,  too  holy  vision 

For  thy  skirts  to  be  holden 

By  soiled  hand  of  mortal  1 


406 


YUSSOUF 


It  wavers,  it  scatters, 
'T  is  gone  past  recalling  I 
A  tear's  sudden  falling 
The  magic  cup  shatters, 
Breaks  the  spell  of  the  waters, 
And  the  sand  cone  once  more, 
With  a  ceaseless  renewing, 
Its  dance  is  pursuing 
On  the  silvery  floor, 
O'er  and  o'er, 

With  a  noiseless  and  ceaseless  renew- 
ing. 


vir. 

*T  is  a  woodland  enchanted  ! 

If  you  ask  me,  Where  is  it  ? 

I  only  can  answer, 

'T  is  past  my  disclosing ; 

Not  to  choice  is  it  granted 

By  sure  paths  to  visit 

The  still  pool  enclosing 

Its  blithe  little  dancer  ; 

But  in  some  day,  the  rarest 

Of  many  Septembers, 

When  the  pulses  of  air  rest, 

And  all  things  lie  dreaming 

In  drowsy  haze  steaming 

From  the  wood's  glowing  embers, 

Then,  sometimes,  unheeding, 

And  asking  not  whither, 

By  a  sweet  inward  leading 

My  feet  are  drawn  thither, 

And,  looking  with  awe  in  the  magical 

mirror, 
I  see  through  my  tears, 
Half  doubtful  of  seeing, 
The  face  unperverted, 
The  warm  golden  being 
Of  a  child  of  five  years  ; 
And  spite  of  the  mists  and  the  error, 
And  the  days  overcast, 
Can  feel  that  I  walk  undeserted, 
But  forever  attended 
By  the  glad  heavens  that  bended 
O'er  the  innocent  past ; 
Toward  fancy  or  truth 
Doth  the  sweet  vision  win  me  ? 
Dare  I  think  that  I  cast 
In  the  fountain  ofyouth 
The  fleeting  reflection 
Of  some  bygone  perfection 
That  still  lingers  in  me  ? 


YUSSOUF. 

A  stranger  came  one  night  to  Yus- 

soufs  tent, 
Saying,   "  Behold  one  outcast  and  im 

dread, 
Against  whose  life  the  bow  of  power  is 

bent, 
Who  flies,  and  hath  not  where  to  lay 

his  head  ; 
I  come  to  thee  for  shelter  and  for  food, 
To  Yussouf,  called  through  all  our  tribes 

"The  Good." 

"  This  tent   is  mine,"  said  Yussouf, 

"  but  no  more 
Than  it  is  God's  ;  come  in,  and  be  at 

peace ; 
Freely  shalt  thou  partake  of  all  my  store 
As  I  of  His  who  buildeth  over  these 
Our  tents  his  glorious  roof  of  night  and 

day, 
And  at  whose  door  none  ever  yet  heard 

Nay." 

So  Yussouf  entertained  his  guest  that 

night, 
And,  waking  him  ere  day,  said  :  "Here 

is  gold, 
My  swiftest  horse   is  saddled  for  thy 

flight, 
Depart   before   the   prying    day  grow 

bold." 
As  one  lamp  lights  another,  nor  grows 

less, 
So  nobleness  enkindleth  nobleness. 

That  inward  light  the  stranger's  face 

made  grand, 
Which  shines   from  all  self-conquest ; 

kneeling  low, 
He  bowed  his  forehead  upon  Yussoufs 

hand, 
Sobbing :    "  O  Sheik,   I  cannot  leave 

thee  so  ; 
I  will  repay  thee  ;  all  this  thou  hast 

done 
Unto  that  Ibrahim  who  slew  thy  son  !  " 

"  Take  thrice  the  gold,"  said  Yussouf, 

"  for  with  thee 
Into  the  desert,  never  to  return, 
My  one  black  thought  shall  ride  away 

from  me  ; 


THE  DARKENED  MIND.  —  WHAT  RABBI J  EH  OS  HA  SAID.  407 


First-born,  for  whom  by  day  and  night 
I  yearn, 

Balanced  and  just  are  all  of  God's  de- 
crees ; 

Thou  art  avenged,  my  first-born,  sleep 
in  peace  !  " 


THE   DARKENED   MIND. 

The  fire  is  burning  clear  and  blithely, 
Pleasantly  whistles  the  winter  wind  ; 
We   are   about   thee,  thy   friends  and 

kindred, 
On  us  all  flickers  the  firelight  kind  ; 
There  thou  sittest  in  thy  wonted  corner 
Lone  and  awful  in  thy  darkened  mind. 

There  thou  sittest ;  now  and  then  thou 

moanest  ; 
Thou  dost  talk  with  what  we  cannot  see, 
Lookest  at  us  with  an  eye  so  doubtful, 
It  doth  put  us  very  far  from  thee  ; 
There  thou  sittest ;  we  would  fain  be 

nigh  thee, 
But  we  know  that  it  can  never  be. 

We  can  touch   thee,   still   we  are   no 

nearer  ; 
Gather  round  thee,  still  thou  art  alone  ; 
The  wide  chasm  of  reason  is  between  us ; 
/hou  confutest  kindness  with  a  moan  ; 
We  can  speak  to  thee,  and  thou  canst 

answer, 
Like  two  prisoners  through  a  wall  of 

stone. 
Hardest  heart  would  call  it  very  awful 
When  thou  look'st  at  us  and  seest  —  O 

what  ? 
If  we  move  away,  thou  sittest  gazing 
With  those  vague  eyes  at  the  selfsame 

spot, 
And   thou   mutterest,  thy  hands  thou 

wringest, 
Seeing  something,  —  us  thou  seest  not. 

Strange  it  is  that,  in  this  open  bright- 
ness, 
Thou  shouldst  sit  in  such  a  narrow  cell  : 
Strange  it  is  that  thou  shouldst  be  so 

lonesome 
Where  those  are  who  love  thee  all  so 

well  ; 
Not  so  much  of  thee  is  left  among  us 
As  the  hum  outliving  the  hushed  bell. 


WHAT  RABBI  JEHOSHA  SAID. 

Rabbi  Jehosha  used  to  say 
That  God  made  angels  every  day, 
Perfect  as  Michael  and  the  rest 
First  brooded  in  creation's  nest, 
Whose  only  office  was  to  cry 
Hosanna  !  once,  and  then  to  die  ; 
Or  rather,  with  Life's  essence  blent, 
To  be  led  home  from  banishment. 

Rabbi  Jehosha  had  the  skill 

To  know  that  Heaven  is  in  God's  will  ; 

And  doing  that,  though  for  a  space 

One  heart-beat  long,  may  win  a  grace 

As  full  of  grandeur  and  of  glow 

As  Princes  of  the  Chariot  know. 

'T  were  glorious,  no  doubt,  to  be 
One  of  the  strong-winged  Hierarchy, 
To  burn  with  Seraphs,  or  to  shine 
With  Cherubs,  deathlessly  divine  ; 
Yet  I,  perhaps,  poor  earthly  clod, 
Could  I  forget  myself  in  God, 
Could  I  but  find  my  nature's  clew 
Simply  as  birds  and  blossoms  do, 
And  but  for  one  rapt  moment  know 
'T  is  Heaven  must  come,  not  we  must 

go, 
Should  win  my  place  as  near  the  throne 
As  the  pearl-angel  of  its  zone, 
And  God  would  listen  'mid  the  throng 
For  my  one  breath  of  perfect  song, 
That,  in  its  simple  human  way, 
Said  all  the  Host  of  Heaven  could  say. 


ALL-SAINTS. 

One  feast,  of  holy  days  the  crest, 
I,  though   no   Churchman,   love  to 
keep, 
All-Saints, — the  unknown  good  that 
rest 
In  God's  still  memory  folded  deep  : 
The  bravely  dumb  that  did  their  deed, 
And  scorned  to  blot  it  with  a  name, 
Men  of  the  plain  heroic  breed, 
That  loved   Heaven's  silence  more 
than  fame. 

Such  lived  not  in  the  past  alone. 
But  thread    to-day  the    unheeding 
street, 


408 


A    WINTER-EVENING  HYMN   TO  MY  FIRS. 


And  stairs  to  Sin  and  Famine  known 
Sing  with  the  welcome  of  their  feet  ; 

The  den  they  enter  grows  a  shrine, 
The  grimy  sash  an  oriel  burns, 

Their  cup  of  water  warms  like  wine, 
Their  speech  is  filled  from  heavenly 
urns. 

About  their  brows  to  me  appears 

An  aureole  traced  in  tenderest  light, 
The  rainbow-gleam  of  smiles  through 
tears 

In  dying  eyes,  by  them  made  bright, 
Of  souls  that  shivered  on  the  edge 

Of  that  chill  ford  repassed  no  more, 
And  in  their  mercy  felt  the  pledge 

And  sweetness  of  the  farther  shore. 


A  WINTER-EVENING  HYMN 
TO   MY  FIRE. 


Beauty  on  my  hearth-stone  blazing  ! 
To-night  the  triple  Zoroaster 
Shall  my  prophet  be  and  master : 
To-night  will  I  pure  Magian  be, 
Hymns  to  thy  sole  honor  raising, 
While  thou  leapest  fast  and  faster, 
Wild  with  self-delighted  glee. 
Or  sink'st  low  and  glowest  faintly 
As  an  aureole  still  and  saintly, 
Keeping  cadence  to  my  praising 
Thee  !  still  thee  !  and  only  thee  ! 


Elfish  daughter  of  Apollo  ! 

Thee,  from  thy  father  stolen  and  bound 

To  serve  in  Vulcan's  clangorous  smithy 

Prometheus  (primal  Yankee)  found. 

And,  when  he  had  tampered  with  thee, 

(Too  confiding  little  maid  !) 

In  a  reed's  precarious  hollow 

To  our  frozen  earth  conveyed  : 

For  he  swore  I  know  not  what ; 

Endless  ease  should  be  thy  lot, 

Pleasure  that  should  never  falter, 

Life-long  play,  and  not  a  duty 

Save  to  hover  o'er  the  altar, 

Vision  of  celestial  beauty, 

Fed  with  precious  woods  and  spices, 

Then,  perfidious  !  having  got 

Thee  in  the  net  of  his  devices, 


Sold  thee  into  endless  slav  wy, 
Made  thee  a  drudge  to  boil  the  pot. 
Thee,  Helios'  daughter,  wM  dost  bear 
His  likeness  in  thy  golden  hair  ; 
Thee,  by  nature  wild  and  w?very 
Palpitating,  evanescent 
As  the  shade  of  Dian's  crescent 
Life,  motion,  gladness,  everywhere  ! 


Fathom  deep  men  bury  thee 
In  the  furnace  dark  and  still, 
There,  with  dreariest  mockery, 
Making  thee  eat,  against  thy  »-Ul» 
Blackest  Pennsylvanian  stone ; 
But  thou  dost  avenge  thy  doom, 
For,  from  out  thy  catacomb, 
Day  and  night  thy  wrath  is  blort" 
In  a  withering  simoom, 
And,  adown  that  cavern  drear, 
Thy  black  pitfall  in  the  floor, 
Staggers  the  lusty  antique  cheer, 
Despairing,  and  is  seen  no  more I 


Elfish  I  may  rightly  name  thee  ; 
We  enslave,  but  cannot  tame  thee  : 
With  fierce  snatches,  now  and  then, 
Thou  pluckest  at  thy  right  again, 
And  thy  down-trod  instincts  savage 
To  stealthy  insurrection  creep, 
While  thy  wittol  masters  sleep, 
And  burst  in  undiscerning  ravage  : 
Then  how  thou  shak'st   thy  bacchant 

locks  ! 
While  brazen  pulses,  far  and  near, 
Throb  thick  and  thicker  wild  with  fear 
And  dread  conjecture,  till  the  drear 
Disordered  clangor  every  steeple  rocks  1 

v. 
But  when  we  make  a  friend  of  thee, 
And  admit  thee  to  the  hall 
On  our  nights  of  festival, 
Then,  Cinderella,  who  could  see 
In  thee  the  kitchen's  stunted  thrall? 
Once  more  a  Princess  lithe  and  tall, 
Thou  dancest  with  a  whispering  tread, 
While  the  bright  marvel  of  thy  head 
In  crinkling  gold  floats  all  abroad, 
And  gloriously  dost  vindicate 
The  legend  of  thy  lineage  great, 
Earth-exiled  daughter  of  the  Pythian 
godl 


A    WINTER-EVENING  HYMN   TO   MY  FIRE. 


40Q 


Now  in  the  ample  chimney-place, 
To  honor  thy  acknowledged  race, 
We  crown  thee  high  with  laurel  good, 
Thy  shining  father's  sacred  wood, 
Which,  guessing  thy  ancestral  right. 
Sparkles  and  snaps  his  dumb  delight, 
And,  at  thy  touch,  poor  outcast  one, 
Feels  through  his  gladdened  fibres  go 
The  tingle  and  thrill  and  vassal  glow 
Of  instincts  loyal  to  the  sun. 


O  thou  of  home  the  guardian  Lar, 
And,  when  our  earth  hath  wandered  far 
Into  the  cold,  and  deep  snow  covers 
The  walks  of  our  New  England  lovers, 
Their  sweet  secluded  evening-star  ! 
'T  was  with  thy  rays  the  English  Muse 
Ripened  her  mild  domestic  hues; 
'T  was  by  thy  flicker  that  she  conned 
The  fireside  wisdom  that  enrings 
With  light  from  heaven  familiar  things; 
By  thee  she  found  the  homely  faith 
In  whose  mild  eyes  thy  comfort  stay'th, 
When  Death,  extinguishing  his  torch, 
Gropes  for  the  latch-string  in  the  porch  ; 
The  love  that  wanders  not  beyond 
His  earliest  nest,  but  sits  and  sings 
While    children     smooth    his    patient 

wings ; 
Therefore  with  thee  I  love  to  read 
Our  brave  old  poets  :  at  thy  touch  how 

stirs 
Life  in  the  withered  words  !  how  swift 

recede 
Time's  shadows !  and  how  glows  again 
Through  its  dead  mass   the  incandes- 
cent verse, 
As  when  upon  the  anvils  of  the  brain 
It  glittering  lay,  cyclopically  wrought 
By  the  fast-throbbing  hammers  of  the 

poet's  thought ! 
Thou  murmurest,  too,  divinely  stirred, 
The  aspirations  unattained. 
The  rhythms  so  rathe  and  delicate, 
They  bent  and  strained 
And  broke,  beneath  the  sombre  weight 
Of  any  airiest  mortal  word. 


What  warm  protection  dost  thou  bend 
Round   curtained   talk   of  friend   with 
friend, 


While  the  gray  snow-storm,  held  aloof, 
To  softest  outline  rounds  the  roof, 
Or  the  rude  North  with  baffled  strain 
Shoulders    the    frost-starred    window- 
pane  ! 
Now  the  kind  nymph  to  Bacchus  borne 
By  Morpheus'  daughter,  she  that  seems 
Gifted  upon  her  natal  morn 
By  him  with  fire,  by  her  with  dreams, 
Nicotia,  dearer  to  the  Muse 
Than  all  the  grapes'  bewildering  juice, 
We  worship,  unforbid  of  thee  ; 
And,  as  her  incense  floats  and  curls 
In  airy  spires  and  wayward  whirls, 
Or  poises  on  its  tremulous  stalk 
A  flower  of  frailest  revery, 
So  winds  and  loiters,  idly  free. 
The  current  of  unguided  talk, 
Now  laughter-rippled,  and  now  caught 
In    smooth,    dark    pools    of    deeper 

thought. 
Meanwhile  thou  mellowest  every  word, 
A  sweetly  unobtrusive  third  ; 
For  thou  hast  magic  beyond  wine. 
To  unlock  natures  each  to  each  ; 
The  unspoken  thought  thou  canst  di- 
vine ; 
Thou  fillest  the  pauses  of  the  speech 
With  whispers  that  to  dream-land  reach- 
And  frozen  fancy-springs  unchain 
In  Arctic  outskirts  of  the  brain  ; 
Sun  of  all  inmost  confidences  ! 
To  thy  rays  cloth  the  heart  unclose 
Its  formal  calyx  of  pretences, 
That  close  against  rude  day's  offenceS( 
And  open  its  shy  midnight  rose. 


Thou  holdest  not  the  master  key 
With  which  thy  Sire  sets  free  the  mys« 

tic  gates 
Of  Past  and  Future  :  not  for  common 

fates 
Do  they  wide  open  fling, 
And,  with  a  far-heard  ring, 
Swing  back  their  willing  valves  melo* 

diously ; 
Only  to  ceremonial  days. 
And  great  processions  of  imperial  song 
That  set  the  world  at  gaze, 
Doth  such  high  privilege  belong  : 
But  thou  a  postern-door  canst  ope 
To  humbler  chambers  of  the  selfsame 

palace 


4io 


FANCY'S   CASUISTRY. 


Where  Memory  lodges,  and  her  sister 

Hope, 
Whose  being  is  but  as  a  crystal  chalice 
Which,   with  her    various  mood,   the 

elder  fills 
Of  joy  or  sorrow, 
So  coloring  as  she  wills 
With  hues  of  yesterday  the  unconscious 

morrow. 


Thou  sinkest,  and  my  fancy  sinks  with 

thee : 
For  thee  I  took  the  idle  shell, 
And  struck  the  unused  chords  again, 
But  they  are  gone  who  listened  well  ; 
Some  are   in   heaven,  and  all  are  far 

from  me : 
Even  as  I  sing,  it  turns  to  pain, 
And  with  vain  tears  my  eyelids  throb 

and  swell  : 
Enough  ;  I  come  not  of  the  race 
That  hawk  their  sorrows  in  the  market- 
place. 
Earth  stops  the  ears  I  best  had  loved 

to  please ; 
Then  break,  ye  untuned  chords,  or  rust 

in  peace  ! 
As  if  a  white-haired  actor  should  come 

back 
Some  midnight  to  the  theatre  void  and 

black, 
And  there  rehearse  his  youth's  great 

part 
'Mid  thin  applauses  of  the  ghosts, 
So  seems  it  now  :   ye  crowd  upon  my 

heart, 
And  I  bow  down  in  silence,  shadowy 

hosts  ! 


FANCY'S  CASUISTRY. 

How    struggles    with    the    tempest's 

swells 
That  warning  of  tumultuous  bells  ! 
The  fire  is  loose  !  and  frantic  knells 

Throb  fast  and  faster, 
As  tower  to  tower  confusedly  tells 

News  of  disaster. 

But  on  my  far-off  solitude 
No  harsh  alarums  can  intrude  ; 


The  terror  comes  to  me  subdued 
And  charmed  by  distance, 

To  deepen  the  habitual  mood 
Of  my  existence. 

Are  those,  I  muse,  the  Easter  chimes? 
And  listen,  weaving  careless  rhymes 
While  the  loud  city's  griefs  and  crimes 

Pay  gentle  allegiance 
To  the  fine  quiet  that  sublimes 

These  dreamy  regions. 

And  when  the  storm  o'erwhelms  the 

shore, 
I  watch  entranced  as,  o'er  and  o'er, 
The  light  revolves  amid  the  roar 

So  still  and  saintly, 
Now  large  and  near,   now  more  and 
more 
Withdrawing  faintly. 

This,  too,  despairing  sailors  see 
Flash  out  the  breakers  'neath  their  lee 
In  sudden  snow,  then  lingeringly 

Wane  tow'rd  eclipse, 
While  through  the  dark  the  shuddering 
sea 

Gropes  for  the  ships. 

And  is  it  right,  this  mood  of  mind 
That  thus,  in  revery  enshrined, 
Can  in  the  world  mere  topics  find 

For  musing  stricture, 
Seeing  the  life  of  humankind 

Only  as  picture? 

The  events  in  line  of  battle  go  ; 
In  vain  for  me  their  trumpets  blow 
As  unto  him  that  lieth  low 

In  death's  dark  arches, 
And  through  the  sod  hears  throbbing 
slow 

The  muffled  marches. 

O  Duty,  am  I  dead  to  thee 
In  this  my  cloistered  ecstasy, 
In  this  lone  shallop  on  the  sea 

That  drifts  tow'rd  Silence? 
And  are  those  visioned  shores  I  srs 

But  sirens'  islands? 

My  Dante  frowns  with  lip-locked  mien, 
As  who  would  say,  "  'T  is  those,  I  ween, 
Whom  lifelong  armor-chafe  makes  lean 
That  win  the  laurel  "  ; 


TO  MR.    JOHN  BARTLETT.-ODE    TO  HAPPINESS.      411 


But  where  is  Truth?    What  does  it 
mean, 
The  world-old  quarrel  ? 

Such  questionings  are  idle  air  : 
Leave  what  to  do  and  what  to  spare 
To  the  inspiring  moment's  care, 

Nor  ask  for  payment 
Of  fame  or  gold,  but  just  to  wear 

Unspotted  raiment. 


TO  MR.  JOHN  BARTLETT, 

WHO    HAD   SENT    ME    A    SEVEN-POUND 
TROUT. 

Fit  for  an  Abbot  of  Theleme, 

For  the  whole  Cardinals'  College, 
or 
The  Pope  himself  to  see  in  dream 
Before  his  lenten  vision  gleam, 
He  lies  there,  the  sogdologer  ! 

His  precious  flanks  with  stars  besprent, 

Worthy  to  swim  in  Castaly  1 
The  friend  by  whom  such  gifts  are  sent, 
For  him  shall  bumpers  full  be  spent, 
His  health  !  be  Luck  his  fast  ally  ! 

I  see  him  trace  the  wayward  brook 

Amid  the  forest  mysteries. 
Where  at  their  shades  shy  aspens  look, 
Or  where,  with  many  a  gurgling  crook, 
It  croons  its  woodland  histories. 

I  see  leaf-shade  and  sun-fleck  lend 

Their  tremulous,  sweet  vicissitude 
To  smooth,    dark    pool,    to    crinkling 

bend, 

\0,  stew  him,  Ann,  as   't  were  your 
friend, 
With  amorous  solicitude !) 

I  see  him  step  with  caution  due, 

Soft  as  if  shod  with  moccasins, 
Grave  as  in  church,  for  who  plies  you, 
Sweet  craft,  is  safe  as  in  a  pew 

From  all  our  common  stock  o  sins. 

The  unerring  flv  I  see  him  cast, 

That  as  a  rose-leaf  falls  as  soft, 
A  flash  !  a  whirl  !  he  has  him  fast  1 
We  tvros,  how  that  struggle  last 
Confuses  and  appalls  us  oft. 


Unfluttered  he  :  calm  as  the  sky 
Looks  on  our  tragi-comedies, 
This  way  and  that  he  lets  him  fly, 
A  sunbeam-shuttle,  then  to  die 

Lands   him,  with  cool  aplomb,  at 
ease. 

The  friend  who  gave  our  board  such 
gust, 
Life's  care  may  he  o'erstep  it  half, 
And,    when  Death  hooks   him,  as  he 

must, 
He  '11  do  it  handsomely,  I  trust, 

And   John   H write  his   epi- 
taph ! 

O,  born  beneath  the  Fishes'  sign, 

Of  constellations  happiest, 
May  he  somewhere  with  Walton  dine, 
May  Horace  send  him  Massic  wine, 
And  Burns  Scotch  drink,  the  nap- 
piest  ! 

And  when   they  come  his    deeds    to 
weigh, 
And  how  he  used  the  talents  his, 
One  trout-scale  in  the  scales  he  '11  lay 
(If  trout  had  scales),  and  't  will  out- 
sway 
The  wrong  side  of  the  balances. 


ODE  TO  HAPPINESS. 

Spirit,  that  rarely  comest  now 
And  only  to  contrast  my  gloom, 
Like    rainbow-feathered    birds    that 
bloom 
A  moment  on  some  autumn  bough 
That,  with  the  spurn  of  their  farewell, 
Sheds  its  last  leaves,  —  thou  once  didst 
dwell 
With   me  year-long,   and  make  in- 
tense 
To  boyhood's  wisely  vacant  days 
Their  fleet  but  all-sufficing  grace 
Of  trustful  inexperience. 
While    soul    could    still    transfigure 
sense, 
And  thrill,  as  with  love's  first  caress, 
At  life's  mere  unexpectedness. 
Days  when  my  blood  would  leap  and 
run 


♦« 


ODE    TO  HAPPINESS. 


As  full  of  sunshine  as  a  breeze, 
Or  spray  tossed   up   by   Summer 
seas 
That  doubts  if  it  be  sea  or  sun  ! 
Days  that  flew  swiftly  like  the  band 
That    played   in   Grecian   games   at 
strife, 
And  passed  from  eager  hand  to  hand 
The  onward-dancing  torch  of  life  ! 

Wing-footed  !  thou  abid'st  with  him 
Who  asks  it  not ;  but  he  who  hath 
Watched  o'er  the  waves  thy  waning 
path, 
Shall  nevermore  behold  returning 
Thy    high-heaped    canvas    shoreward 

yearning  ! 
Thou  first  reveal'st  to  us  thy  face 
Turned    o'er   the    shoulder's    parting 
grace, 
A  moment  glimpsed,  then   seen  no 
more,  — 
Thou  whose   swift    footsteps  we    can 
trace 
Away  from  every  mortal  door. 

Nymph  of  the  unreturning  feet, 
How  may  I   win  thee  back?     But 

no, 
I  do  thee  wrong  to  call  thee  so  : 
'T  is  I  am  changed,  not  thou  art  fleet : 
The  man  thy  presence  feels  again, 
Not  in  the  blood,  but  in  the  brain, 
Spirit,  that  lov'st  the  upper  air 
Serene  and  passionless  and  rare, 
Such  as  on    mountain   heights   we 

find 
And    wide-viewed    uplands    of   the 
mind  ; 
Or  such  as  scorns  to  coil  and  sing 
Round  any  but  the  eagle's  wing 
Of  souls  that  with  long  upward  beat 
Have  won  an  undisturbed  retreat 
Where,  poised  like  winged  victories, 
They  mirror  in  relentless  eyes 
The  life  broad-basking  'neath  their 
feet,  — 
Man  ever  with  his  Now  at  strife, 
Pained   with   first   gasps   of  earthly 

air, 
Then    praying    Death    the    last    to 
spare, 
Still  fearful  of  the  ampler  life. 


Not  unto  them  dost  thou  consent 

Who,  passionless,  can  lead  at  ease 
A  life  of  unalloyed  content 

A  life  like  that  of  land-locked  seas, 
That  feel  no  elemental  gush 
Of  tidal  forces,  no  fierce  rush 

Of     storm     deep-grasping    scarcely 
spent 

'Twixt  continent  and  continent. 
Such  quiet  souls  have  never  known 

Thy  truer  inspiration,  thou 

Who  lov'st  to  feel  upon  thy  brow 
Spray  from  the  plunging  vessel  thrown 

Grazing  the  tusked  lee  shore,  the  cliff 
That  o'er  the   abrupt  gorge   holds   its 
breath, 

Where  the  frail  hair-breadth  of  an  if 
Is  all  that  sunders  life  and  death  : 
These,    too,  are   cared-for,  and   round 

these 
Bends  her  mild  crook  thy  sister  Peace  ; 

These  in  unvexed  dependence  lie, 

Each  'neath  his  strip  of  household 
sky  ; 
O'er  these  clouds  wander,  and  the  blue 
Hangs     motionless    the    whole     day 
through  ; 

Stars  rise  for  them,  and  moons  grow 
large 
And  lessen  in  such  tranquil  wise 
As  joys  and  sorrows  do  that  rise 

Within     their     nature's     sheltered 
marge  ; 
Their  hours  into  each  other  flit 

Like  the  leaf-shadows  of  the  vine 
And  fig-tree  under  which  they  sit, 

And  their  still  lives  to  heaven  incline 
With  an  unconscious  habitude, 

Unhistoried  as  smokes  that  rise 
From  happy  hearths  and  sight  elude 

In  kindred  blue  of  morning  skies. 

Wayward  !  when  once  we  feel  thy  lack, 
'T  is  worse  than  vain  to  woo  thee  back  ! 

Yet  there  is  one  who  seems  to  be 
Thine  elder  sister,  in  whose  eyes 
A  faint  far  northern  light  will  rise 

Sometimes,  and  bring  a  dream  of 
thee  ; 
She  is  not  that  for  which  youth  hoped, 

But  she  hath  blessings  all  her  own. 
Thoughts  pure  as  lilies  newly  oped, 

And  faith  to  sorrow  given  alone  * 
Almost  I  deem  that  it  is  thou 


VILLA   FRANCA. 


4i3 


Come  back  with  graver  matron  brow, 
With  deepened  eyes  and  bated  breath, 
Like  one  that  somewhere  hath  met 
Death, 
But  'No,"  she  answers,  "  I  am  she 
Whom  the  gods  love,  Tranquillity  : 
That  other  whom  you  seek  forlorn 
Half  earthly  was  ;  but  I  am  bora 
Of  the  immortals,  and  our  race 
Wear  still  some  sadness  on  our  face  : 

He  wins  me  late,  but  keeps  me  long, 
Who,  dowered  with  every  gift  of  pas- 
sion, 
In  that  fierce  flame  can  forge  and  fash- 
ion r 
Of  sin  and  self  the  anchor  strong  ; 
Can  thence  compel  the  driving  force 
Of  daily  life's  mechanic  course, 
Nor  less  the  nobler  energies 
Of  needful  toil  and  culture  wise  ; 
Whose  soul  is  worth  the  tempter's  lure 
Who  can  renounce,  and  yet  endure, 
To  him  I  come,  not  lightly  wooed, 
But  won  by  silent  fortitude." 


VILLA    FRANCA. 

1859. 

Wait  a  little  :  do  we  not  wait? 
Louis  Napoleon  is  not  Fate, 
Francis  Joseph  is  not  Time  ; 
There's   One  hath  swifter  feet    than 

Crime  : 
Cannon-parliaments  settle  naught ;     _ 
Venice      is      Austria's,  —  whose     is 

Thought  ? 
Minie  is  good,  but,  spite  of  change, 
Gutenberg's  gun  has  the  longest  range. 

Spin,  spin,  Clotho,  spin  ! 

Lachesis,     twist  !    and    Atropos, 
sever  ! 

Tn  the  shadow,  year  out,  year  m, 

The  silent  headsman  waits  forever. 

Wait,  we  sav  :  our  years  are  long  ; 
Men  are  weak,  but  Man  is  strong  ; 
Since  the  stars  first  curved  their  rings, 
We  have  looked  on  many  things  ; 
Great  wars  come  and  great  wars  go, 
Wolf-tracks  light  on  polar  snow  ; 
We  shall  see  him  come  and  gone, 


This  second-hand  Napoleon. 
Spin,  spin,  Clotho,  spin  I 
Lachesis,     twist  !     and    Atropos, 

sever  ! 
In  the  shadow,  year  out,  year  in, 
Trie  silent  headsman  waits  forever. 

We  saw  the  elder  Corsican, 
And  Clotho  muttered  as  she  span, 
While  crowned  lackeys  bore  the  train, 
Of  the  pinchbeck  Charlemagne  : 
"  Sister,  stint  not  length  of  thread  ! 
Sister,  stay  the  scissors  dread  ! 
On  Saint  Helen's  granite  bleak, 
Hark,  the  vulture  whets  his  beak  !  " 

Spin,  spin,  Clotho,  spin  ! 

Lachesis,     twist !     and    Atropos, 
sever  ! 

In  the  shadow,  year  out,  year  in, 

The  silent  headsman  waits  forever. 

The  Bonapartes,  we  know  their  bees 
That  wade  in  honey  red  to  the  knees  : 
Their  patent  reaper,  its  sheaves  sleep 

sound 
In  dreamless  garners  underground  : 
We  know  false  glory's  spendthrift  race 
Pawning  nations  for  feathers  and  lace  ; 
It  may  be  short,  it  may  be  long, 
"  'T  is  reckoning-day  !  "  sneers  unpaid 
Wrong. 

Spin,  spin,  Clotho,  spin  ! 

Lachesis,    twist  !     and    Atropos, 
sever ! 

In  the  shadow,  year  out,  year  in, 

The  silent  headsman  waits  forever. 

The  Cock  that  wears  the  Eagle's  skin 
Can  promise  what  he  ne'er  could  win  ; 
Slavery  reaped  for  fine  words  sown, 
System  for  all,  and  rights  for  none, 
Despots  atop,  a  wild  clan  below, 
Such  is  the  Gaul  from  long  ago  ; 
Wash    the    black    from   the   Ethiop  s 

face, 
Wash  the  past  out  of  man  or  race  ! 

Spin,  spin,  Clotho,  spin  ! 

Lachesis,    twist !      and    Atropos, 
sever  ! 

In  the  shadow,  year  out,  year  in, 

The  silent  headsman  waits  forever. 

'Neath     Gregory's    throne    a    spider 

swings. 
And  snares  the  people  for  the  kings ; 


*i4 


THE  MINER.  — GOLD  EGG. 


"  Luther  is  dead ;  old  quarrels  pass  ; 
The  stake's  black  scars  are  healed  with 

grass  " ; 
So  dreamers  prate  ;  did  man  e'er  live 
Saw  priest  or  woman  yet  forgive  ? 
But  Luther's  broom  is  left,  and  eyes 
Peep  o'er  their  creeds  to  where  it  lies. 

Spin,  spin,  Clotho,  spin  ! 

Lachesis,     twist  !      and    Atropos, 
sever ! 

In  the  shadow,  year  out,  year  in, 

The  sileut  headsman  waits  forever. 

Smooth  sails  the  ship  of  either  realm, 
Kaiser  and  Jesuit  at  the  helm  ; 
We  look  down  the  depths,  and  mark 
Silent  workers  in  the  dark 
Building  slow  the  sharp-tusked  reefs, 
Old  instincts  hardening  to  new  beliefs  ; 
Patience  a  little  ;  Jearn  to  wait ; 
Hours  are  long  on  the  clock  of  Fate. 

Spin,  spin,  Clotho,  spin  ! 

Lachesis,     twist  !     and    Atropos, 
sever  1 
.  Darkness  is  strong,  and  so  is  Sin, 

But  only  God  endures  forever  I 


THE   MINER. 

Down  'mid  the  tangled  roots  of  things 
That  coil  about  the  central  fire, 

I  seek  for  that  which  giveth  wings 
To  stoop,  not  soar,  to  my  desire. 

Sometimes  I  hear,  as  't  were  a  sigh, 
The  sea's  deep  yearning  far  above, 

"  Thou  hast  the  secret  not,"  I  cry, 
"  In  deeper  deeps  is  hid  my  Love." 

They  think  I  burrow  from  the  sun, 
In  darkness,  all  alone,  and  weak  ; 

Such  loss  were  gain  if  He  were  won, 
For  't  is  the  sun's  own  Sun  I  seek. 

"The  earth,"  they  murmur,  "is  the 
tomb 

That  vainly  sought  his  life  to  prison  ; 
Why  grovel  longer  in  the  gloom  ? 

He  is  not  here  ;  he  hath  arisen." 

More  life  for  me  where  he  hath  lain 
Hidden  while  ye  believed  him  dead, 


Than  in  cathedrals  cold  and  vain, 
Built  on  loose  sands  of//  is  said. 

My  search  is  for  the  living  gold  ; 

Him  I  desire  who  dwells  recluse 
And  not  his  image  worn  and  old, 

Day-servant  of  our  sordid  use. 

If  him  I  find  not,  yet  I  find 
The  ancient  joy  of  cell  and  church, 

ihe  glimpse,  the  surety  undefined, 
Ihe  unquenched  ardor  of  the  search. 

Happier  to  chase  a  flying  goal 
Than  to  sit  counting  laurelled  gains, 

lo  guess  the  Soul  within  the  soul 
Than  to  be  lord  of  what  remains. 

Hide  still,  best  Good,  in  subtile  wise, 
Beyond  my  nature's  utmost  scope  ; 

Be  ever  absent  from  mine  eyes 
To  be  twice  present  in  my  hope  ! 


GOLD 


EGG:    A   DREAM-FAN- 
TASY. 


HOW  A  STUDENT  IN  SEARCH  OF  THB 
BEAUTIFUL  FELL  ASLEEP  IN  DRES- 
DEN OVER  HERR  PROFESSOR  DOCTOR 
VISCHER'S  WISSENSCHAFT  DES  SCHO- 
NEN,  AND  WHAT  CAME  THEREOF. 

I  swam  with  undulation  soft, 

Adrift  on  Vischer's  ocean, 
And,  from  my  cockboat  up  aloft, 
Sent  down  my  mental  plummet  oft 

In  hope  to  reach  a  notion. 

But  from  the  metaphysic  sea 
No  bottom  was  forthcoming, 

And  all  the  while  (how  drearily  !) 

In  one  eternal  note  of  B 
My  German  stove  kept  humming. 

"  What  's  Beauty ?  "  mused  I ;    "is  it 
told 

By  synthesis?  analysis? 
Have  you  not  made  us  lead  of  gold  f 
To  feed  your  crucible,  not  sold 

Our  temple's  sacred  chalices  ?  " 


GOLD  EGG. 


•4'S 


Then  o'er  my  senses  came  a  change  ; 

My  book  seemed  all  traditions, 
Old  legends  of  profoundest  range, 
Diablery.  and  stories  strange 

Of  goblins,  elves,  magicians. 

Old  gods  in  modern  saints  I  found, 
Old  creeds  in  strange  disguises  ; 
I  thought  them  safely  underground, 
And  here  they  were  all  safe  and  sound, 
Without  a  sign  of  phthisis. 

Truth    was,    my    outward    eyes   were 
closed. 

Although  I  did  not  know  it ; 
Deep  into  dream-land  I  had  dozed, 
And  so  was  happily  transposed 

From  proser  into  poet. 

So  what  I  read  took  flesh  and  blood, 

And  turned  to  living  creatures  : 
The  words  were  but  the  dingy  bud 
That  bloomed,  like   Adam,  from   the 
mud, 
To  human  forms  and  features. 

I  saw  how  Zeus  was  lodged  once  more 

By  Baucis  and  Philemon  ; 
The  text  said,  "  Not  alone  of  yore, 
But  every  day,  at  every  door, 

Knocks  still  the  masking  Demon." 

Daimon  't  was  printed  in  the  book, 

And,  as  I  read  it  slowly, 
The  letters  stirred  and  changed,  and 

took 
Jove's  stature,  the  Olympian  look 

Of  painless  melancholy. 

He  paused  upon  the  threshold  worn  : 
"With  coin  I  cannot  pay  you  ; 

Yet  would  I  fain  make  some  return  ; 

The  gift  for  cheapness  do  not  spurn, 
Accept  this  hen,  I  pray  you. 

"  Plain  feathers  wears  my  Hemera, 

And  has  from  ages  olden  ; 
She  makes  her  nest  in  common  hay, 
And  yet,  of  all  the  birds  that  lay, 

Her  eggs  alone  are  golden." 

He  turned,  and  could  no  more  be  seen  ; 

Old  Baucis  stared  a  moment, 
Then  tossed  poor  Partlet  on  the  green, 
And  with  a  tone,  half  jest,  half  spleen, 

Thus  made  her  housewife's  comment : 


"  The  stranger  had  a  queerish  face, 

His  smile  was  hardly  pleasant, 
And,  though  he  meant  it  for  a  grace, 
Yet  ihis  old  hen  of  barnyard  race 
Was  but  a  stingy  present. 

"  She  's  quite  too  old  for  laying  eggs, 

Nay,  even  to  make  a  soup  of; 
One  only  needs  to  see  her  legs,  — 
You  might  as  well  boil  down  the  pegs 
I  made  the  brood-hen's  coop  of! 

"  Some  eighteen  score  of  such  do  I 

Raise  every  year,  her  sisters  ; 
Go,  in  the  woods  your  fortunes  try, 
All  day  for  one  poor  earthworm  pry, 
And  scratch  your  toes  to  blisters  1 " 

Philemon  found  the  rede  was  good, 
And,  turning  on  the  poor  hen, 

He  clapt  his  hands,  and  stamped,  and 
shooed, 

Hunting  the  exile  tow'rd  the  wood. 
To  house  with  snipe  and  moor-hen. 

A  poet  saw  and  cried  :  "  Hold  !  hold  1 

What  are  you  doing,  madman? 
Spurn  you  more  wealth  than  can  be  told, 
The  fowl  that  lays  the  eggs  of  gold. 
Because  she  's  plainly  clad,  man  ?  " 

To  him  Philemon  :  "  I  '11  not  balk 
Thy  will  with  any  shackle  : 

Wilt  add  a  burden  to  thy  walk  ? 

There  !  take  her  without  further  talk; 
You  're  both  but  fit  to  cackle  !  " 

But  scarce  the  poet  touched  the  bird, 

It  swelled  to  stature  regal : 
And  when    her  cloud-wide   wings  she 

stirred, 
A  whisper  as  of  doom  was  heard, 

'T  was  Jove's  bolt-bearing  eagle. 

As    when    from    far-off     cloud-bergs 
springs 

A  crag,  and,  hurtling  under, 
From  cliff  to  cliff  the  rumor  flings, 
So  she  from  flight-foreboding  wings 

Shook  out  a  murmurous  thunder. 

She  gripped  the  poet  to  her  breast. 

And,  ever  upward  soaring, 
Earth  seemed  a  new  moon  in  the  west- 


416 


A    FAMILIAR  EPISTLE    TO  A    FRIEND. 


And  then  one  light  among  the  rest 
Where  squadrons  lie  at  mooring. 

How  tell  to  what  heaven-hallowed  seat 

The  eagle  bent  his  courses? 
The  waves  that  on  its  bases  beat. 
The  gales  that  round  it  weave  and  fleet, 
Are  life's  creative  forces. 

Here  was  the  bird's  primeval  nest. 

High  on  a  promontory 
Star-pharosed,  where  she  takes  her  rest 
To  brood  new  asons  'neath  her  breast, 

The  future's  unfledged  glory. 

I  know  not  how,  but  I  was  there 

All  feeling,  hearing,  seeing; 
It  was  not  wind  that  stirred  my  hair 
But  living  breath,  the  essence  rare 
Of  unembodied  being. 

And  in  the  nest  an  egg  of  gold 
Lay  soft  in  self-made  lustre  ; 
Gazing  whereon,  what  depths  untold 
Within,  what  marvels  manifold, 
Seemed  silently  to  muster  ! 

Daily  such  splendors  to  confront 

Is  still  to  me  and  you  sent? 
It  glowed  as  when  Saint  Peter's  front, 
Illumed,  forgets  its  stony  wont, 
And  seems  to  throb  translucent. 

One  saw  therein  the  life  of  man, 

(Or  so  the  poet  found  it,) 
The  yolk  and  white,  conceive  who  can, 
Were  the  glad  earth,  that,  floating,  span 

In  the  glad  heaven  around  it. 

1  knew  this  as  one  knows  in  dream, 

Where  no  effects  to  causes 
Are  chained  as  in  our  work-day  scheme, 
And  then  was  wakened  by  a  scream 

That  seemed  to  come  from  Baucis. 

"  Bless  Zeus  !  "  she  cried,  "  I  'm  safe 
below ! " 

First  pale,  then  red  as  coral  ; 
And  I,  still  drowsy,  pondered  slow, 
And  seemed  to  find,  but  hardly  know, 

Something  like  this  for  moral. 

Each  day  the  world  is  born  anew 
For  him  who  takes  it  rightly ; 


Not  fresher  that  which  Adam  knew, 
Not  sweeter  that  whose  moonlit  dew 
Entranced  Arcadia  nightly. 

Rightly?     That 's  simply  :  't  is  to  see 

Some  substance  casts  these  shadows 
Which  we  call  Life  and  History, 
That  aimless  seem  to  chase  and  flee 
Like  wind-gleams  over  meadows. 

Simply?     That's  nobly:  't  is  to  know 

That  God  may  still  be  met  with, 
Nor  groweth  old,  nor  doth  bestow 
These  senses  fine,  this  brain  aglow, 
To  grovel  and  forget  with. 

Beauty,  Herr  Doctor,  trust  in  me, 
No  chemistry  will  win  you  ; 

Charis  still  rises  from  the  sea  ; 

If  you  can't  find  her,  might  it  be 
Because  you  seek  within  you? 


A    FAMILIAR    EPISTLE    TO   A 
FRIEND. 

Alike  I  hate  to  be  your  debtor, 

Or  write  a  mere  perfunctory  letter  ; 

For  letters,  so  it  seems  to  me, 

Our  careless  quintessence  should  be, 

Our  real  nature's  truant  play 

When    Consciousness    looks  t'  otheh 

way, 
Not  drop  by  drop,  with  watchful  skill, 
Gathered  in  Art's  deliberate  still, 
But  life's  insensible  completeness 
Got  as  the  ripe  grape   gets  its  sweet- 
ness, 
As  if  it  had  a  way  to  fuse 
The  golden  sunlight  into  juice. 
Hopeless  my  mental  pump  I  try  : 
The  boxes  hiss,  the  tube  is  dry; 
As  those  petroleum  wells  that  spout 
Awhile  like  M.  C.'s  then  give  out, 
My  spring,  once  full  as  Arethusa, 
Is  a  mere  bore  as  dry  's  Creusa  ; 
And  yet  you  ask  me  why  I  'm  glum, 
And  why  my  graver  Muse  is  dumb. 
Ah  me  !    I  've  reasons  manifold 
Condensed  in  one,  —  I  'm  getting  old  I 

When  life,  once  past  its  fortieth  year, 
Wheels  up  its  evening  hemisphere, 


A    FA  MILIAR   EPISTLE    TO   A    FRIEND. 


417 


The  mind's  own  shadow,  which  the 
boy 

Saw  onward  point  to  hope  and  joy, 

Shifts  round,  irrevocably  set 

Tow'rd  morning's  loss  and  vain  re- 
gret, 

And,  argue  with  it  as  we  will, 

The  clock  is  unconverted  still. 

"  But  count  the  gains,"  I  hear  you 
say, 

*'  Which  far  the  seeming  loss  out- 
weigh ; 

Friendships  built  firm  'gainst  flood  and 
wind 

On  rock-foundations  of  the  mind  ; 

Knowledge  instead  of  scheming  hope  ; 

For  wild  adventure,  settled  scope  ; 

Talents,  from  surface-ore  profuse, 

Tempered  and  edged  to  tools  for  use  ; 

Judgment,  for  passion's  headlong 
whirls  ; 

Old  sorrows  crystalled  into  pearls  ; 

Losses  by  patience  turned  to  gains, 

Possessions  now,  that  once  were  pains; 

Joy's  blossom  gone,  as  go  it  must, 

To  ripen  seeds  of  faith  and  trust ; 

Why  heed  a  snow-flake  on  the  roof 

If  fire  within  keep  Age  aloof 

Though  blundering  north-winds  push 
and  strain 

With  palms  benumbed  against  the 
pane?" 

My  dear  old  Friend,  you  're  very  wise  ; 
We  always  are  with  others'  eyes, 
And  see  so  clear  !  (our  neighbor's  deck 

on) 
What  reef  the  idiot 's  sure  to  wreck  on  ; 
Folks  when   they  learn   how   life   has 

quizzed  'em 
Are  fain  to  make  a  shift  with  Wisdom, 
And,  finding  she  nor  breaks  nor  bends, 
Give  her  a  letter  to  their  friends. 
Draw  passion's  torrent  whoso  will 
Through  sluices  smooth  to  turn  a  mill, 
And,  taking  solid  toll  of  grist, 
Forget  the  rainbow  in  the  mist, 
The  exulting  leap,  the  aimless  haste 
Scattered  in  iridescent  waste  ; 
Prefer  who  likes  the  sure  esteem 
To  cheated  youth's  midsummer  dream, 
When    every    friend  was    more    than 

Damon, 

27 


Each  quicksand  safe  to  build  a  fame  on  ; 
Believe  that  prudence  snug  excels 
Youth's  gross  of  verdant  spectacles. 
Through  which  earth's  withered  stubble 

seen 
Looksautumn-proofas  painted  green,  — 
I  side  with  Moses  'gainst  the  masses, 
Take    you   the   drudge,   give   me  the 

glasses  ! 
And,  for  your  talents  shaped  with  prac- 
tice, 
Convince  me  first  that  such  the  fact  is; 
Let  whoso  likes  be  beat,  poor  fool, 
On  life's  hard  stithy  to  a  tool, 
Be  whoso  will  a  ploughshare  made, 
Let  me  remain  a  jolly  blade  1 

What 's  Knowledge,  with  her  stocks 
and  lands, 

To  gay  Conjecture's  yellow  strands? 

What 's  watching  her  slow  flocks  in- 
crease 

To  ventures  for  the  golden  fleece? 

What  her  deep  ships,  safe  under  lee. 

To  youth's  light  craft,  that  drinks  the 
sea, 

For  Flying  Islands  making  sail, 

And  failing  where  't  is  gain  to  fail  ? 

Ah  me  !  Experience  (so  we  're  told), 

Time's  crucible,  turns  lead  to  gold  ; 

Yet  what 's  experience  won  but  dross, 

Cloud-gold  transmuted  to  our  loss? 

What  but  base  coin  the  best  event 

To  the  untried  experiment? 

'T  was  an  old  couple,  says  the  poet, 
That  lodged  the  gods  and  did  not  know 

it; 
Youth  sees  and  knows  them  as  they 

were 
Before  Olympus'  top  was  bare  ; 
From  Swampscot's  flats  his  eye  divine 
Sees  Venus  rocking  on  the  brine, 
With  lucent  limbs,  that  somehow  scat- 
ter a 
Charm  that  turns  Doll  to  Cleopatra  ; 
Bacchus  (that  now  is  scarce  induced 
To  give  Eld's  lagging  blood  a  boost), 
With  cymbals'  clang  and  pards  to  draw 

him, 
Divine  as  Ariadne  saw  him, 
Storms  through  Youth's  pulse  with  all 

his  train 
And  wins  new  Indies  in  his  brain  ; 


4i8 


AN  EMBER   PICTURE. 


Apollo  (with  the  old  a  trope, 
A  sort  of  finer  Mister  Pope), 

Apollo but  the  Muse  forbids  ; 

At  his  approach  cast  down  thy  lids, 
And  think  it  joy  enough  to  hear 
Far  off  his  arrows  singing  clear  ; 
He  knows  enough  who  silent  knows 
The  quiver  chiming  as  he  goes  ; 
He  tells  too  much  who  e'er  betrays 
The  shining  Archer's  secret  ways. 

Dear  Friend,  you  're  right  and  I  am 

wrong ; 
My  quibbles  are  not  worth  a  song, 
And  I  sophistically  tease 
My  fancy  sad  to  tricks  like  these. 
I  could  not  cheat  you  if  I  would  ; 
You  know  me  and  my  jesting  mood, 
Mere  surface-foam,  for  pride  concealing 
The  purpose  of  my  deeper  feeling. 
I  have  not  spilt  one  drop  of  joy 
Poured  in  the  senses  of  the  boy, 
Nor  Nature  fails  my  walks  to  bless 
With  all  her  golden  inwardness  ; 
And  as  blind  nestlings,  unafraid, 
Stretch  up  wide-mouthed  to  every  shade 
By  which  their  downy  dream  is  stirred, 
Taking  it  for  the  mother-bird, 
So,  when  God's  shadow,  which  is  light, 
Unheralded,  by  day  or  night, 
My  wakening  instincts  falls  across, 
Silent  as  sunbeams  over  moss, 
In  my  heart's  nest  half-conscious  things 
Stir  with  a  helpless  sense  of  wings, 
Lift  themselves  up,  and  tremble  long 
With  premonitions  sweet  of  song. 

Be  patient,  and  perhaps  (who  knows  ?) 
These   may   be  winged   one   day  like 

those ; 
If  thrushes,  close-embowered  to  sing, 
Pierced  through  with  June's  delicious 

sting  ; 
If  swallows,  their  half-hour  to  run 
Star-breasted  in  the  setting  sun. 
At    first    they  're    but    the    unfledged 

proem, 
Or  songless  schedule  of  a  poem  ; 
When  from  the  shell  they  're  hardly  dry 
If  some  folks  thrust  them  forth,  must  I  ? 

But  let  me  end  with  a  comparison 
Never  yet  hit  upon  by  e'er  a  son 
Of  our  American  Apollo, 


(And  there  's  where  I  shall  beat  them 

hollow, 
If  he  is  not  a  courtly  St.  John, 
But,  as  West  said,  a  Mohawk  Injun.) 
A  poem  's  like  a  cruise  for  whales  : 
Through  untried  seas  the  hunter  sails, 
His  prow  dividing  waters  known 
To  the  blue  iceberg's  hulk  alone  ; 
At  last,  on  farthest  edge  of  day, 
He  marks  the  smoky  puff"  of  spray ; 
Then  with  bent  oars  the  shallop  flies 
To  where  the  basking  quarry  lies  ; 
Then  the  excitement  of  the  strife, 
The  crimsoned  waves,  —  ah,  this  is  life  ! 

But,  the  dead  plunder  once  secured 
And  safe  beside  the  vessel  moored, 
All  that  had  stirred  the  blood  before 
Is  so  much  blubber,  nothing  more, 
(I  mean  no  pun,  nor  image  so 
Mere  sentimental  verse,  you  know,) 
And  all  is  tedium,  smoke,  and  soil, 
In  trying-out  the  noisome  oil. 

Yes,  this  Is  life  !    And  so  the  bard 
Through  briny  deserts,  never  scarred 
Since  Noah's  keel,  a  subject  seeks, 
And  lies  upon  the  watch  for  weeks  ; 
That  once  harpooned  and  helpless  ly- 
ing, 
What  follows  is  but  weary  trying. 

Now  I  've  a  notion,  if  a  poet 

Beat  up  for  themes,  his  verse  will  show 

it  ; 
I  wait  for  subjects  that  hunt  me, 
By  day  or  night  won't  let  me  be, 
And  hang  about  me  like  a  curse, 
Till  they  have  made  me  into  verse, 
From  line  to  line  my  fingers  tease 
Beyond  my  knowledge,  as  the  bees 
Build  no  new  cell  till  those  before 
With  limpid  summer-sweet  run  o'er  ; 
Then,  if  I  neither  sing  nor  shine, 
Is  it  the  subject's  fault,  or  mine  ? 


AN  EMBER  PICTURE. 

How  strange  are  the  freaks  of  memory! 

The  lessons  of  life  we  forget, 
While  a  trifle,  a  trick  of  color, 

In  the  wonderful  web  is  set,  — 


TO  H.    W.   L. 


419 


Set  by  some  mordant  of  fancy, 
And,  spite  of  the  wear  and  tear 

Of  time  or  distance  or  trouble, 
Insists  on  its  right  to  be  there. 

A  chance  had  brought  us  together  ; 

Our  talk  was  of  matters-of-course  ; 
We  were  nothing,  one  to  the  other, 

But  a  short  half-hour's  resource. 

We  spoke  of  French  acting  and  actors, 
And  their  easy,  natural  way  : 

Of  the  weather,  for  it  was  raining 
As  we  drove  home  from  the  play. 

We  debated  the  social  nothings 
We  bore  ourselves  so  to  discuss  ; 

The  thunderous  rumors  of  battle 
Were  silent  the  while  for  us. 

Arrived  at  her  door,  we  left  her 
With  a  dnppingly  hurried  adieu, 

And  our  wheels  went  crunching  the 
gravel 
Of  the  oak-darkened  avenue. 

As  we  drove  away  through  the  shadow, 

The  candle  she  held  in  the  door 
From  rain-varnished  tree-trunk  to  tree- 
trunk 
Flashed    fainter,     and     flashed   no 
more  ;  — 

Flashed  fainter,  then  wholly  faded 
Before  we  had  passed  the  wood; 

But  the  light  of  the  face  behind  it 
Went  with  me  and  stayed  for  good. 

The  vision  of  scarce  a  moment, 
And  hardly  marked  at  the  time, 

It  comes  unbidden  to  haunt  me, 
Like  a  scrap  of  ballad-rhyme. 

Had  she  beauty  ?    Well,  not  what  they 
call  so  : 

You  may  find  a  thousand  as  fair; 
And  yet  there  's  her  face  in  my  memory 

With  no  special  claim  to  be  there. 

As  I  sit  sometimes  in  the  twilight, 
And  call  back  to  life  in  the  coals 

Old  faces  and  hopes  and  fancies 
Long   buried,    (good    rest    to  their 
souls  1) 


Her  face  shines  out  in  the  embers-, 
I  see  her  holding  the  light, 

And  hear  the  crunch  of  the  gravel 
And  the  sweep  of  the  rain  that  night 

'T  is  a  face  that  can  never  grow  older. 

That  never  can  part  with  its  gleam, 
'T  is  a  gracious  possession  forever, 

For  is  it  not  all  a  dream  ? 


TO   H.   W.    L., 

ON    HIS     BIRTHDAY,    27TH    FEBRUARY. 

l867. 

I  need  not  praise  the  sweetness  of  his 

song, 
Where  limpid  verse  to  limpid  verse 

succeeds 
Smooth  as  our  Charles,  when,  fearing 

lest  he  wrong 
The    new   moon's   mirrored    skiff,   he 

slides  along, 
Full  without  noise,  and  whispers  in 

his  reeds. 

With  loving  breath  of  all  the  winds  hi? 
name 
Is  blown  about  the  world,  but  to  hi? 
friends 
A  sweeter  secret  hides  behind  his  fame, 
And  Love  steals  shyly  through  the  loud 
acclaim 
To   murmur   a  God  bless  you  !  and 
there  ends. 

As  I  muse  backward  up  the  checkered 
years 
Wherein  so  much  was  given,  so  much 
was  lost, 
Blessings  in  both  kinds,  such  as  cheapen 

tears,  — 
But  hush  !  this  is  not  for  profaner  ears  ; 
Let  them   drink   molten  pearls   nor 
dream  the  cost. 

Some  suck  up  poison  from  a  sorrow's 

core, 
As  naught  but  nightshade  grew  upon 

earth's  ground  ; 
Love  turned  all  his  to  heart's-ease,  and 

the  more 


+20 


THE  NIGHTINGALE  IN  THE   STUDY. 


Fate  tried  his  bastions,  she  but  forced 
a  door 
Leading    to  sweeter  manhood   and 
more  sound. 

Even  as  a  wind-waved  fountain's  sway- 
ing shade 
Seems  of  mixed  race,  a  gray  wraith 
shot  with  sun, 

So   through  his  trial  faith  translucent 
rayed 

Till   darkness,   half  disnatured  so,  be- 
trayed 
A  heart  of  sunshine  that  would  fain 
o'errun. 

Surely  if  skill  in  song  the  shears  may 
stay 
And  of  its  purpose  cheat  the  charmed 
abyss, 
If  our  poor  life  be  lengthened  by  a  lay, 
He  shall  not  go,  although  his  presence 
may, 
And    the  next  age  in  praise    shall 
double  this. 

Long  days  be  his,  and  each  as  lusty- 
sweet 
As  gracious  natures  find  his  song  to 
be  ; 
May  Age  steal  on  with  softly-cadenced 

feet 
Falling  in  music,  as  for  him  were  meet 
Whose  choicest  verse  is  harsher-toned 
than  he  ! 


THE  NIGHTINGALE    IN  THE 
STUDY. 

"  Come  forth  !  "  my  catbird  calls  to  me, 
"  And  hear  me  sing  a  cavatina 

That,  in  this  old  familiar  tree, 
Shall  hang  a  garden  of  Alcina. 

"  These  buttercups  shall  brim  with  wine 
Beyond  all  Lesbian  juice  or  Massic  ; 

May  not  New  England  be  divine  ? 
My  ode  to  ripening  summer  classic  ? 

"  Or,  if  to  me  you  will  not  hark, 

By  Beaver  Brook  a  thrush  is  ringing 

Till  all  the  alder-coverts  dark 

Seem  sunshine-dappled  with  his  sing- 
ing. 


"  Come  out  beneath  the  unmastered 
sky, 

With  its  emancipating  spaces, 
And  learn  to  sing  as  well  as  I, 

Without  premeditated  graces. 

"  What  boot  your  many-volumed  gains, 
Those  withered  leaves  forever  turn- 
ing, 

To  win,  at  best,  for  all  your  pains, 
A  nature  mummy-wrapt  in  learning  ? 

"  The  leaves  wherein  true  wisdom  lies 
On  living  trees  the  sun  are  drinking  ; 

Those  white  clouds,  drowsing  through 
the  skies, 
Grew  not  so  beautiful  by  thinking. 

"  Come  out  !  with  me  the  oriole  cries, 
Escape  the  demon  that  pursues  you  ! 

And,  hark,  the  cuckoo  weatherwise, 
Still   hiding,   farther  onward    wooes 
you." 

"  Alas,  dear  friend,  that,  all  my  days, 
Has  poured  from  that  syringa  thicket 

The  quaintly  discontinuous  lays 
To  which  I  hold  a  season-ticket, 

"  A  season-ticket  cheaply  bought 
With  a  dessert  of  pilfered  berries, 

And  who  so  oft  my  soul  hast  caught 
With  morn  and  evening  voluntaries, 

"  Deem  me  not  faithless,  if  all  day 
Among  my  dusty  books  I  linger, 

No  pipe,  like  thee,  for  June  to  play 
With  fancy-led,  half-conscious  finger. 

"  A  bird  is  singing  in  my  brain 
And    bubbling    o'er    with     mingled 
fancies, 

Gay,  tragic,  rapt,  right  heart  of  Spain 
Fed  with  the  sap  of  old  romances. 

"  I  ask  no  ampler  skies  than  those 
His  magic  music  rears  above  me, 

No  falser  friends,  no  truer  foes, — 
And  does  not  Dona  Clara  love  me? 

"  Cloaked  shapes,  a  twanging  of  guitars, 
A  rush  of  feet,  and  rapiers  clashing, 

Then  silence  deep  with  breathless  stars. 
And  overhead  a  white  hand  flashing- 


IN  THE    TWILIGHT.  —  THE  FOOT-PA  TH. 


421 


"  O  music  of  all  moods  and  climes, 
Vengeful,  forgiving,  sensuous,  saintly, 

Where    still,    between    the    Christian 
chimes, 
The  moorish  cymbal  tinkles  faintly  I 

"  O  life  borne  lightly  in  the  hand. 
For  friend  or  foe  with  grace  Castilian  1 

O  valley  safe  in  Fancy's  land, 

Not  tramped  to  mud  yet  by  the  mil- 
lion ! 

"  Bird  of  to-day,  thy  songs  are  stale 
To  his,  my  singer  of  all  weathers, 

My  Calderon,  my  nightingale, 
My  Arab  soul  in  Spanish  feathers. 

"  Ah,  friend,  these  singers  dead  so  long, 
And  still,  God  knows,  in  purgatory, 

Give  its  best  sweetness  to  all  song, 
To  Nature's  self  her  better  glory." 


IN  THE  TWILIGHT. 

Men  say  the  sullen  instrument, 
That,  from  the  Master's  bow, 
With  pangs  of  joy  or  woe, 
Feels  music's  soul  through  every  fibre 
sent, 
Whispers  the  ravished  strings 
More  than  he  knew  or  meant  ; 
Old  summers  in  its  memory  glow  ; 
The  secrets  of  the  wind  it  sings  ; 
It  hears  the  April-loosened  springs  ; 
And  mixes  with  its  mood 
All  it  dreamed  when  it  stood 
In  the  murmurous  pine-wood 
Long  ago  ! 

The  magical  moonlight  then 

Steeped  every  bough  and  cone  ; 
The  roar  of  the  brook  in  the  glen 

Came  dim  from  the  dis  ance  blown  ; 
The  wind  through  its  glooms  sang  low, 
And  it  swayed  to  and  fro 
With  delight  as  it  stood, 
In  the  wonderful  wood, 
Long  ago  I 

O  my  life,  have  we  not  had  seasons 
That  only  said,  Live  and  rejoice  ? 
That  asked  not  for  causes  and  reasons, 


But  made  us  all  feeling  and  voice? 
When  we  went  with  the  winds  in  their 
blowing, 
When  Nature  and  we  were  peers, 
And  we  seemed  to  share  in  the  flowing 
Of  the  inexhaustible  years? 
Have  we  not  from  the  earth  drawn 

juices 
Too  fine  for  earth's  sordid  uses? 
Have  I  heard,  have  I  seen 

All  I  feel  and  I  know? 
Doth  my  heart  overween? 
Or  could  it  have  been 
Long  ago  ? 

Sometimes  a  breath  floats  by  me, 
An  odor  from  Dreamland  sent, 
That  makes  the  ghost  seem  nigh  me 
Of  a  splendor  that  came  and  went, 
Of  a   life   lived   somewhere,    I    know 
not 
In  what  diviner  sphere, 
Of  memories  that  stay  not  aDd  go  not, 
Like  music  heard  once  by  an  ear 
That  cannot  forget  or  reclaim  it, 
A  something  so  shy,  it  would  shame 
it 
To  make  it  a  show, 
A  something  too  vague,   could  I 
name  it, 
For  others  to  know, 
As  if  I  had  lived  it  or  dreamed  it, 
As  if  I  had  acted  or  schemed  it, 
Long  ago  ! 

And  yet,  could  I  live  it  over, 

This  life  that  stirs  in  my  brain, 
Could  I  be  both  maiden  and  lover, 
Moon  and  tide,  bee  and  clover, 

As  I  seem  to  have  been,  once  again. 
Could  I  but  speak  and  show  it, 
This  pleasure  more  sharp  than  pain. 
That  baffles  and  lures  me  so, 
The  world  should  not  lack  a  poet, 
Such  as  it  had 
In  the  ages  glad. 

Long  ago  ! 


THE   FOOT-PATH. 

It  mounts  athwart  the  windv  hill 
Through  sallow  slopes  of  upland  bare. 


422 


THE  FOOT-PATH. 


And  Fancy  climbs  with  foot-fall  still 
Its  narrowing  curves  that  end  in  air. 

By  day,  a  warmer-hearted  blue 

Stoops  softly  to  that  topmost  swell  ; 

Its  thread-like  windings  seem  a  clew 
To  gracious  climes  where  all  is  well. 

By  night,  far  yonder,  I  surmise 

An  ampler  world  than  clips  my  ken, 

Where  the  great  stars  of  happier  skies 
Commingle  nobler  fates  of  men. 

I  look  and  long,  then  haste  me  home, 
Still  master  of  my  secret  rare  ; 

Once   tried,    the   path   would    end  in 
Rome, 
But  now  it  leads  me  everywhere. 

Forever  to  the  new  it  guides, 

From  former  good,  old  overmuch  ; 

What  Nature  for  her  poets  hides, 
'T  is  wiser  to  divine  than  clutch. 

The  bird  I  list  hath  never  come 
Within  the  scope  of  mortal  ear  : 

My  prying  step  would  make  him  dumb, 
And  the  fair  tree,  his  shelter,  sear. 

Behind  the  hill,  behind  the  sky, 

Behind  my  inmost  thought,  he  sings  ; 

No  feet  avail  ;  to  hear  it  nigh, 

The  song  itself  must  lend  the  wings. 

Sing  on,  sweet  bird  close  hid,  and  raise 
Those  angel  stairways  in  my  brain, 

That  climb  from  these  low-vaulted  days 
To  spacious  sunshines  far  from  pain. 

Sing  when  thou  wilt,  enchantment  fleet, 
I  leave  thy  covert  haunt  untrod, 


And  envy  Science  not  her  feat 
To  make  a  twice-told  tale  of  God. 

They  said  the  fairies  tript  no  more, 
And  long  ago  that  Pan  was  dead  ; 

'T  was  but  that  fools  preferred  to  bore 
Earth's  rind  inch-deep  for  truth  in- 
stead. 

Pan  leaps  and  pipes  all  summer  long, 
The  fairies  dance  each   full-mooned 
night, 

Would  we  but  doff  our  lenses  strong, 
And  trust  our  wiser  eyes'  delight. 

City  of  Elf-land,  just  without 
Our  seeing,  marvel  ever  new, 

Glimpsed  in  fair  weather,  a  sweet  doubt 
Sketched-in,  mirage-like,  on  the  blue. 

I  build  thee  in  yon  sunset  cloud, 
Whose  edge    allures   to    climb    the 
height  ; 
I  hear  thy  drowned  bells,  inly-loud, 
From  still  pools  dusk  with   dreams 
of  night. 
Thy  gates  are  shut  to  hardiest  will, 

Thy  countersign  of  long-lost  speech,— 
Those  fountained  courts,  those  cham- 
bers still, 
Fronting  Time's  far  East,  who  shall 
reach  ? 

I  know  not  and  will  never  pry, 
But  trust  our  human  heart  for  all  ; 

Wonders  that  from  the  seeker  fly 
Into  an  open  sense  may  fall. 

Hide  in  thine  own  soul,  and  surprise 
The  password  of  the  unwary  elves  ; 

Seek    it,  thou    canst  not  bribe   their 
spies  : 
Unsought,  they  whisper  it  themselves. 


THE   WASHERS  OF  THE  SHROUD. 


423 


POEMS    OF    THE    WAR. 


THE  WASHERS  OF  THE 
SHROUD. 

October,  1861. 

Along  a  river-side,  I  know  not  where, 
J    walked    one  night   in    mystery  of 

dream  ; 
A  chill  creeps  curdling  yet  beneath  my 

hair, 
To  think  what  chanced  me  by  the  pallid 

gleam 
Of  a  moon-wraith  that  waned  through 

haunted  air. 

Pale  fireflies  pulsed  within  the  meadow- 
mist 

Their  halos,  wavering  thistledowns  of 
light ; 

The  loon,  that  seemed  to  mock  some 
goblin  tryst, 

Laughed ;  and  the  echoes,  huddling 
in  affright, 

Like  Odin's  hounds,  fled  baying  down 
the  night. 

Then  all  was  silent,  till  there  smote  my 

ear 
A  movement  in  the  stream  that  checked 

my  breath  : 
Was  it  the  slow  plash  of  a  wading  deer? 
But  something  said,  "This  water  is  of 

Death ! 
The  Sisters  wash  a  shroud, — ill  thing 

to  hear  !  " 

I,  looking  then,  beheld  the  ancient 
Three 

Known  to  the  Greek'sandtothe  North- 
man's creed. 

Thai  sit  in  shadow  of  the  mystic  Tree, 


Still  crooning,  as  they  weave  their  end- 
less brede, 

One  song  :  "  Time  was,  Time  is,  and 
Time  shall  be." 

No   wrinkled  crones  were   they,  as   I 

had  deemed, 
But  fair  as  yesterday,  to-day,  to-morrow, 
To  mourner,  lover,  poet,  ever  seemed  ; 
Something  too  high  for  joy,  too  deep 

for  sorrow, 
Thrilled  in  their  tones,  and  from  their 

faces  gleamed. 

"  Still  men  and  nations  reap  as  they 

have  strawn," 
So  sang  they,  working  at  their  task  the 

while  ; 
"  The  fatal  raiment  must  be  cleansed 

ere  dawn  : 
For  Austria?    Italy?    the  Sea-Queen's 

isle  ? 
O'er  what  quenched  grandeur  must  our 

shroud  be  drawn  ? 

"  Or  is  it  for  a  younger,  fairer  corse, 
That  gathered  States  for  children  round 

his  knees, 
That  tamed  the  wave  to  be  his  posting- 
horse, 
Feller  of  forests,  linker  of  the  seas, 
Bridge-builder,     hammerer,     youngest 
son  of  Thor's  ? 

"  What  make  we,  murmur'st  thou  ?  and 

what  are  we  ? 
When  empires  must    be    wound,   we 

bring  the  shroud, 
The  time-old  web   of  the  implacable 

Three : 


4*4 


THE    WASHERS  OF   THE  SHROUD. 


Is  it  too  coarse  for  him,  the  young  and 

proud  ? 
Earth's  mightiest  deigned  to  wear  it,  — 

why  not  he  ?  " 

"Is  there  no  hope?"  I  moaned,  "so 

strong,  so  fair  ! 
Our  Fowler  whose   proud   bird  would 

brook  erewhile 
No  rival's  swoop  in  all  our  western  air  ! 
Gather  the  ravens,  then,  in  funeral  file 
For  him,  life's  morn  yet  golden  in  his 

hair? 

"  Leave  me  not  hopeless,  ye  unpitying 

dames  1 
I   see,  half  seeing.     Tell  me,  ye  who 

scanned 
The   stars,   Earth's   elders,  still   must 

noblest  aims 
Be  traced  upon  oblivious  ocean-sands  ? 
Must  Hesper  join  the  wailing  ghosts 

of  names  ? " 

"  When  grass-blades  stiffen  with  red 

battle-dew, 
Ye  deem  we  choose  the  victor  and  the 

slain : 
Say,  choose  we  them  that  shall  be  leal 

and  true 
To  the  heart's  longing,  the  high  faith 

of  brain  ? 
Yet  there   the  victory  lies,  if  ye  but 

knew. 

"  Three    roots    bear    up    Dominion : 

Knowledge,  Will,  — 
These  twain  are  strong,  but  stronger 

yet  the  third,  — 
Obedience,  —  't  is  the  great  tap-root 

that  still, 
Knit  round  the  rock  of  Duty,  is  not 

stirred, 
Though  Heaven-loosed  tempests  spend 

their  utmost  skill. 

"  Is  the  doom  sealed  for  Hesper?    'T 

is  not  we 
Denounce  it,  but  the   Law  before  all 

time  : 
The  brave  makes  danger  opportunity  : 
The  waverer,  paltering  with  the  chance 

sublime, 
Dwarfs  it  to  peril :  which  shall  Hesper 

be? 


"  Hath  he  let  vultures  climb  his  eagle's 

seat 
To  make  Jove's  bolts  purveyors  of  their 

maw? 
Hath   he   the  Many's   plaudits   found 

more  sweet 
Than  Wisdom?    held  Opinion's   wind 

for  Law? 
Then  let  him  hearken   for  the  doom- 

ster's  feet  I 

"Rough  are  the  steps,  slow-hewn  in 
flintiest  rock, 

States  climb  to  power  by ;  slippery 
those  with  gold 

Down  which  they  stumble  to  eternal 
mock  : 

No  chafferer's  hand  shall  long  the  scep- 
tre hold, 

Who,  given  a  Fate  to  shape,  would  sell 
the  block. 

"  We  sing  old  Sagas,  songs  of  weal  and 

woe, 
Mystic  because  too  cheaply  understood ; 
Dark  sayings  are  not  ours  ;   men  hear 

and  know, 
See  Evil  weak,  see  strength   alone  in 

Good, 
Ye'  hope  to  stem  God's  fire  with  wall? 

of  tow. 

"  Time  Was  unlocks  the  riddle  of  Time 

Is, 
That  offers  choice  of  glory  or  of  gloom  ; 
The  solver  makes  Time  Shall  Be  surely 

his. 
But  hasten,   Sisters  I   for  even  now  the 

tomb 
Grates  its  slow  hinge  and  calls  from  the 

abyss." 

"  But  not  for  him,"  I  cried,  "  not  yet 

for  him, 
Whose  large  horizon,  westering,  star  by 

star 
Wins  from  the  void  to  where  on  OceanV 

rim 
The  sunset  shuts  the  world  with  golden 

bar. 
Not  yet  his  thews  shall   fail,   his  eye 

grow  dim  ! 

"  His  shill  be  larger  manhood,  saved 
for  those 


TWO  SCENES  FROM   THE   LIFE   OF  BLONDE L. 


4*5 


That  walk  unblenching    through    the 

trial-fires  ; 
Not  suffering,  but  faint  heart,  is  worst 

of  woes, 
And  he  no  base-born  son  of  craven 

sires, 
Whose  eye  need  blench  confronted  with 

his  foes. 

"  Tears  may  be  ours,  but  proud,  for 

those  who  win 
Death's  royal  purple  in  the  foeman's 

lines ; 
Peace,  too,  brings  tears  ;   and  'mid  the 

battle-din, 
The  wiser  ear  some  text  of  God  divines, 
For  the  sheathed  blade  may  rust  with 

darker  sin. 

"  God,  give  us  peace  !  not  such  as  lulls 
to  sleep, 

But  sword  on  thigh,  and  brow  with  pur- 
pose knit  ! 

And  let  our  Ship  of  State  to  harbor 
sweep, 

Her  ports  all  up,  her  battle-lanterns  lit, 

And  her  leashed  thunders  gathering  for 
their  leap  !  " 

So  cried  I   with  clenched  hands  and 

passionate  pain, 
Thinking  of   dear  ones  by  Potomac's 

side  ; 
Again  the  loon  laughed  mocking,  and 

again 
The  echoes  bayed  far  down  the  night 

and  died, 
While  waking  I  recalled  my  wandering 

brain. 


TWO  SCENES  FROM  THE  LIFE 
OF  BLONDEL. 

AUTUMN,  1863. 

Scene  I.  —Near  a  Castle  in  Germany. 

'Twere  no  hard  task,   perchance,   to 
win 
The  popular  laurel  for  my  song; 
*T  were  only  to  comply  with  sin, 
And  own  the  crown,  though  snatched 
by  wrong : 


Rather  Truth's  chaplet  let  me  wear, 
Though  sharp  as  death  its  thorns  may 
sting  ; 

Loyal  to  Loyalty,  I  bear 

No  badge  but  of  my  rightful  king. 

Patient  by  town  and  tower  I  wait, 

Or  o'er  the  blustering  moorland  go ; 
I  buy  no  praise  at  cheaper  rate, 

Or  what  faint  hearts  may  fancy  so  ; 
For  me,  no  joy  in  lady's  bower, 

Or  hall,  or  tourney,  will  I  sing, 
Till  the  slow  stars  wheel  round  the  hour 

That  crowns  my  hero  and  my  king. 

While  all  the  land  runs  red  with  strife, 

And  wealth  is  won  by  pedler-crimes, 
Let  who  will  find  content  in  life 

And  tinkle  in  unmanly  rhymes  ; 
I  wait  and  seek  ;   through   dark  and 
light, 

Safe  in  my  heart  my  hope  I  bring, 
Till  I  once  more  my  faith  may  plight 

To  him  my  whole  soul  owns  her  king. 

When  power  is  filched  by  drone  and 
dclt. 
And,  with  caught  breath  and  flashing 
eye, 
Her  knuckles  whitening  round  the  bolt, 
Vengeance  leans  eager  from  the  sky, 
While  this  and  that  the  people  guess, 

And  to  the  skirts  of  praters  cling, 
Who  court  the  crowd  they  should  com- 
press, 
I  turn  in  scorn  to  seek  my  king. 

Shut  in  what  tower  of  darkling  chance 

Or  dungeon  of  a  narrow  doom, 
Dream'st  thou  of  battle-axe  and  lance 
That  for  the  Cross  make  crashing 
room  ? 
Come  !  with  hushed  breath  the  battle 
waits 
In  the  wild  van  thy  mace's  swing  ; 
While  doubters  parley  with  their  fates, 
Make  thou  thine  own  and  ours,  my 
king  ! 

O,  strong  to  keep  upright  the  old, 
And  wise  to  buttress  with  the  new, 

Prudent,  as  only  are  the  bold, 
Clear-eyed,  as  only  are  the  true, 

To  foes  benign,  to  friendship  stern. 


426 


TWO  SCENES  FROM   THE  LIFE   OF  BLONDEL. 


Intent  to  imp  Law's  broken  wing, 
Who  would  not  die,  if  death  might  earn 
The  right  to  kiss  thy  hand,  my  king  ? 

Scene  II.  —  An  Inn  near  the  Chateau 
of  Clialus. 

Well,  the  whole  thing  is  over,   and 
here  I  sit 
With  one  arm  in  a  sling  and  a  milk- 
score  of  gashes, 
And  this  flagon  of  Cyprus  must  e'en 
warm  my  wit, 
Since  what's  left  of  youth's  flame  is  a 
head  flecked  with  ashes. 
I   remember  I  sat   in  this  very  same 
inn,  — 
I  was  young  then,  and  one  young  man 
thought  I  was  handsome,  — 
I   had  found  out    what    prison    King 
Richard  was  in, 
And  was  spurring  for  England  to  push 
on  the  ransom. 

How  I  scorned  the  dull  souls  that  sat 
guzzling  around 
And  knew  not  my  secret  nor  recked 
my  derision  ! 
Let  the  world  sink  or  swim,  John  or 
Richard  be  crowned, 
All  one,  so  the  beer-tax  got  lenient 
revision. 
How  little  1  dreamed,  as  I  tramped  up 
and  down, 
That  granting  our  wish  one  of  Fate's 
saddest  jokes  is  ! 
I  had  mine  with  a  vengeance, — my 
king  got  his  crown, 
And    made    his  whole    business  to 
break  other  folks's. 

I  might  as  well  join  in  the  safe  old  turn, 
turn  : 
A  hero  's  an   excellent  loadstar,  — 
but,  bless  ye, 
What  infinite  odds  'twixt  a  hero  to  come 
And  your  only  too  palpable  hero  in 
esse ! 
Precisely  the  odds  (such  examples  are 
rife) 
'Twixt  the  poem  conceived  and  the 
rhyme  we  make  show  of, 
Twixt  the  boy's  morning  dream  and 
the  wake-up  of  life, 


'Twixt  the  Blondel  God  meant  and  a 
Blondel  1  know  of! 

But   the  world  's  better  off,  I  'm   con- 
vinced of  it  now, 
Than  if  heroes,  like  buns,  could  be 
bought  for  a  penny 
To  regard  all  mankind  as  their  haltered 
milch-cow, 
And  just  care  for  themselves.     Well, 
God  cares  for  the  many  ; 
For  somehow  the  poor  old  Earth  blun- 
ders along, 
Each  son  of  hers  adding  his  mite  of 
unfitness, 
And,  choosing  the  sure  way  of  coming 
out  wrong, 
Gets  to  port  as  the  next  generation 
will  witness. 

You  think  her  old  ribs  have  come  all 
crashing  through, 
If  a  whisk  of  Fate's  broom  snap  your 
cobweb  asunder; 
But  her  rivets  were  clinched  by  a  wiser 
than  you, 
And  our  sins  cannot  push  the  Lord's 
right  hand  from  under. 
Better  one  honest  man  who  can  wait 
for  God's  mind 
In    our    poor    shifting    scene  here; 
though  heroes  were  plenty  ! 
Better  one   bite,  at  forty,  of  Truth's 
bitter  rind, 
Than  the  hot  wine  that  gushed  from 
the  vintage  of  twenty  1 

I  see  it  all  now  :    when   I  wanted  a 
king, 
'T  was  the   kingship  that   failed  in 
myself  I  was  seeking,  — 
'T  is  so  much  less  easy  to  do  than  to 
sing, 
So  much  simpler  to  reign  by  a  proxy 
than  be  king  ! 
Yes,  I  think  I  do  see :  after  all  's  said 
and  sung, 
Take  this  one  rule  of  life  and  you 
never  will  rue  it,  — 
'T  is  but  do  your  own  duty  and  hold 
your  own  tongue 
And  Blondel  were  royal  himself,  if 
he  knew  it ! 


ME  MO  RIM,   FOSITUM. 


427 


MEMORUE  POSITUM. 
R.  G.  S. 


Beneath  the  trees, 
My  life-long  friends  in  this  dear  spot, 
Sad  now  for  eyes  that  see  them  not 
I  hear  the.  autumnal  breeze 
Wake  the  sear  leaves  to  sigh  for  glad- 
ness gone, 
Whispering   hoarse  presage   of  obliv- 
ion, — 
Hear,  restless  as  the  seas, 
Time's  grim  feet  rustling  through  the 

withered  grace 
Of  many  a  spreading  realm  and  strong- 
stemmed  race, 
Even  as  my  own  through  these. 

Why  make  we  moan 
For  loss  that  doth  enrich  us  yet 
With  upward  yearnings  of  regret  ? 
Bleaker  than  unmossed  stone 
Our  lives  were  but  for  this  immortal 

Sain 
Of    unstilled    longing    and    inspiring 

pain  I 

As  thrills  of  long-hushed  tone 

Live   in   the  viol,   so  our  souls  grow 

fine 

With  keen  vibrations  from  the  touch 

divine 

Of  noble  natures  gone. 

'T  were  indiscreet 
To  vex  the  shy  and  sacred  grief 
With  harsh  obtrusions  of  relief ; 
Yet,  Verse,  with  noiseless  feet, 
Go   whisper :    "  This   death   hath   far 

choicer  ends 
Than  slowly  to  impearl   in  hearts  of 
friends  ; 
These  obsequies  't  is  meet 
Not  to  seclude  in  closets  of  the  heart, 
But,  church-like,  with  wide  doorways, 
to  impart 
Even  to  the  heedless  street." 


Brave,  good,  and  true, 
I  see  him  stand  before  me  now, 
And  read  again  on  that  young  brow, 

Where  every  hope  was  new, 


How  sweet  were  life  !    Yet,    by  the 
mouth  firm-set, 

And  look  made  up  for  Duty's  utmost 
debt, 
I  could  divine  he  knew 

That  death  within  the  sulphurous  hos- 
tile lines, 

In   the   mere  wreck   of  nobly-pitched 
designs, 
Plucks  heart's-ease,  and  not  rue. 

Happy  their  end 
Who    vanish     down    life's    evening 

stream 
Placid  as  swans  that  drift  in  dream 
Round  the  next  river-bend  ! 
Happy  long  life,  with  honor  at  the  close, 
Friends'   painless   tears,    the   softened 
thought  of  foes  ! 
And  yet,  like  him,  to  spend 
All  at  a  gush,  keeping  our  first  faith 

sure 
From  mid-life's  doubt  and  eld's  con- 
tentment poor,  — 
What  more  could  Fortune  send? 

Right  in  the  van, 
On  the  red  rampart's  slippery  swell, 
With  heart  that  beat  a  charge,  he  fell 
Foeward,  as  fits  a  man  ; 
But  the  high  soul  burns  on  to  light 

men's  feet 
Where  death  for  noble  ends  makes  dy- 
ing sweet  ; 
His  life  her  crescent's  span 
Orbs  full  with  share  in  their  undarken- 

ing  days 
Who  ever  climbed  the  battailous  steeps 
of  praise 
Since  valor's  praise  began. 

m. 

His  life's  expense 
Hath  won  for  him  coeval  youth 
With  the  immaculate  prime  of  Truth  ; 
While  we,  who  make  pretence 
At  living  on,  and  wake  and  eat   and 

sleep, 
And  life's  stale  trick  by  repetition  keep, 

Our  fickle  permanence 
(A  poor  leaf-shadow  on  a  brook,  whose 

play 
Of  busy  idlesse  ceases  with  our  day) 
Is  the  mere  cheat  of  sense. 


** 


ON  BOARD    THE    '76. 


We  bide  our  chance, 
Unhappy,  and  make  terms  with  Fate 
A  little  more  to  let  us  wait  ; 
He  leads  for  aye  the  advance, 
Hope's   forlorn-hopes   that    plant   the 

desperate  good 
For  nobler  Earths  and  days  of  manlier 
mood  ; 
Our  wall  of  circumstance 
Cleared  at  a  bound,  he  flashes  o'er  the 

.  fight, 
A  saintly  shape  of  fame,  to  cheer  the 
right 
And  steel  each  wavering  glance. 

I  write  of  one, 
While  with  dim  eyes  I  think  of  three  ; 
Who  weeps  not  others  fair  and  brave 
as  he  ? 
Ah,  when  the  fight  is  won, 
Dear  Land,  whom  triflers  now  make 

bold  to  scorn, 
(Thee  !     from   whose   forehead   Earth 
awaits  her  morn,) 
How  nobler  shall  the  sun 
Flame  in  thy  sky,  how  braver  breathe 

thy  air, 
That  thou  bred'st  children  who  for  thee 
could  dare 
And  die  as  thine  have  done  ! 
1863. 


ON   BOARD   THE   '76. 

written  for  mr.  bryant's    seven- 
tieth birthday. 

November  3,  1864. 

Our  ship  lay  tumbling  in  an  angry  sea, 
Her   rudder  gone,  her  main-mast 
o'er  the  side  ; 
Her  scuppers,  from  the  waves'  clutch 
staggering  free 
Trailed  threads  of  priceless  crimson 
through  the  tide  : 
Sails,  shrouds,   and  spars  with  pirate 
cannon  torn, 
We  lay,  awaiting  morn. 

Awaiting  morn,   such  morn  as  mocks 
despair ; 
And  she  that  bore  the  promise  of  the 
world 


Within  her  sides,  now  hopeless,  helm, 
less,  bare, 
At  random  o'er  the  wildering  waters 
hurled ; 
The  reek  of  battle  drifting  slow  alee 
Not  sullener  than  we. 

Morn  came  at   last   to  peer  into   our 
woe, 
When  lo,  a  sail!     Now  surely  help 
was  nigh  ; 
The   red   cross   flames   aloft,    Christ's 
pledge  ;  but  no, 
Her  black  guns  grinning  hate,  she 
rushes  by 
And  hails  us  :  —  "  Gains  the  leak  I  Ay, 
so  we  thought ! 
Sink,  then,  with  curses  fraught  ! " 

I  leaned  against   my  gun   still  angry- 
hot, 
And  my  lids  tingled  with  the  tears 
held  back  ; 
This  scorn  methought  was  crueller  than 
shot : 
The  manly  death-grip  in  the  battle- 
wrack, 
Yard-arm     to    yard-arm,    were     more 
friendly  far 
Than  such  fear-smothered  war. 

There  our  foe  wallowed,  like  a  wounded 
brute 
The  fiercer  for  his  hurt.     What  now 
were  best  ? 
Once  more  tug  bravely  at  the  peril's 
root, 
Though    death    came   with   it?    Or 
evade  the  test 
If  right  or  wrong  in  this  God's  world  of 
ours 
Be  leagued  with  higher  powers? 

Some,    faintly   loyal,   felt   their  pulses 
lag 
With  the  slow  beat  that  doubts  and 
then  despairs ; 
Some,  caitiff,    would  have   struck  the 
starry  flag 
That   knits   us   with   our  past,    and 
makes  us  heirs 
Of  deeds   high-hearted   as  were    ever 
done 
'Neath  the  all-seeing  sun- 


COMMEMORA  TION  ODE. 


429 


Bat  there  was  one,  the   Singer  of  our 
crew, 
Upon   whose   head   Age   waved  his 
peaceful  sign, 
But  whose  red   heart's-blood   no  sur- 
render knew ; 
And  couchant  under  brows  of  mas- 
sive line, 
The  eyes,  like  guns  beneath  a  parapet, 
Watched,  charged  with  lightnings 
yet. 

The  voices  of  the  hills  did  his  obey  : 
The  torrents  flashed  and  tumbled  in 
his  song ; 
He  brought  our  native  fields  from  far 
away, 
Or    set    us    'mid    the    innumerable 
throng 
Of  dateless  woods,  or  where  we  heard 
the  calm 
Old  homestead's  evening  psalm. 

But  now  he  sang  of  faith  to  things  un- 
seen, 
Of  freedom's  birthright  given  to  us  in 
trust ; 
And  words  of  doughty  cheer  he  spoke 
between, 
That  made  all  earthly  fortune  seem 
as  dust, 
Matched  with  that  duty,  old  as  Time 
and  new, 
Of  being  brave  and  true. 

We,  listening,  learned  what  makes  the 
might  of  words,  — 
Manhood  to  back  them,  constant  as 
a  star ; 
His  voice  rammed  home  our  cannon, 
edged  our  swords, 
And    sent    our   boarders  shouting  ; 
shroud  and  spar 
Heard  him   and    stiffened ;    the    sails 
heard,  and  wooed 
The  winds  with  loftier  mood. 

In  our  dark  hours  he  manned  our  guns 
again  ; 
Remanned   ourselves   from   his  own 
manhood's  store  ; 
Pride,  honor,  country,  throbbed  through 
all  his  strain  ; 
And  shall  we  praise?    God's  praise 
was  his  before  ; 


And   on    our   futile    laurels   he    looks 
down, 
Himself  our  bravest  crown. 


ODE  RECITED  AT  THE    HAR- 
VARD COMMEMORATION. 

July  21,  1865. 


Weak-winged  is  song, 

Nor  aims  at  that  clear-ethered  height 

Whither    the    brave   deed   climbs  for 

light : 
We  seem  to  do  them  wrong, 
Bringing  our  robin's-leaf  to  deck  their 

hearse 
Who  in   warm  life-blood  wrote  their 

nobler  verse, 
Our  trivial   song   to  honor  those  who 

come 
With  ears  attuned  to  strenuous  trump 

and  drum, 
And  shaped  in  squadron-strophes  their 

desire, 
Live     battle-odes    whose    lines    were 

steel  and  fire  : 
Yet  sometimes  feathered  words  are 

strong, 
A  gracious   memory  to  buoy  up   and 

save 
From  Lethe's  dreamless  ooze,  the  com- 
mon grave 
Of  the  un venturous  throng. 


To-day  our  Reverend  Mather  welcomes 
back 
Her  wisest  Scholars,  those  who  un- 
derstood 
The  deeper  teaching  of  her  mystic  tome, 
And  offered  their  fresh  lives  to  make 
it  good  : 
No  lore  of  Greece  or  Rome, 
No  science  peddling  with  the  names  of 

things, 
Or  reading  stars  to  find  inglorious  fates, 

Can  lift  our  life  with  wings 
Far  from  Death's  idle  gulf  that  for  the 
many  waits, 


43° 


COMMEMORATION  ODE. 


And  lengthen  out  our  dates 
With  that  clear  fame  whose  memory 

sings 
In  manly  hearts  to  come,  and  nerves 

them  and  dilates  : 
Nor  such  thy  teaching,   Mother  of  us 
all! 
Not  such  the  trumpet-call 
Of  thy  diviner  mood, 
That  could  thy  sons  entice 
From  happy  homes  and  toils,  the  fruit- 
ful nest 
Of  those  half- virtues  which  the  world 
calls  best, 
Into  War's  tumult  rude  ; 
But  rather  far  that  stern  device 
The  sponsors  chose    that  round    thy 
cradle  stood 
In  the  dim,  unventured  wood, 
The  Veritas  that  lurks  beneath 
The  letter's  unprolific  sheath, 
Life  of  whate'er  makes  life  worth 
living, 
Seed-grain  of  high  emprise,  immortal 
food, 
One  heavenly  thing  whereof  earth 
hath  the  giving. 


ill. 

Many  loved  Truth,  and  lavished  life's 
best  oil 
Amid  the  dusk  of  books  to  find  her, 
Content  at  last,  for  guerdon  of  their  toil, 
With  the  cast  mantle  she  hath  left 
behind  her. 
Many  in  sad  faith  sought  for  her, 
Many  with  crossed  hands  sighed 

for  her  ; 
But  these,  our  brothers,  fought  for 

her, 
At  life's  dear  peril  wrought  for  her, 
So  loved  her  that  they  died  for  her. 
Tasting  the  raptured  fleetness 
Of  her  divine  completeness  : 
Their  higher  instinct  knew 
Those  love  her  best  who  to  themselves 

are  true, 
And  what  they  dare  to  dream  of,  dare 
to  do  ; 
They  followed  her  and  found  her 
Where  all  may  hope  to  find, 
Not  in  the  ashes  of  the  burnt-out  mind, 


But  beautiful,  with  danger's  swee'tiess 
round  her. 
Where  faith  made  whole  with  deed 
Breathes  its  awakening  breath 
Into  the  lifeless  creed, 
They  saw  her  plumed  and  mailed, 
With  sweet  stern  face  unveiled, 
And  all-repaying  eyes,  look  proud  on 
them  in  death. 


Our  slender  life  runs  rippling  by,  and 
glides 
Into  the  silent  hollow  of  the  past  ; 

What  is  there  that  abides 
To  make  the  next  age  better  for  the 
last? 
Is  earth  too  poor  to  give  us 
Something  to  live  for  here  that  shall 
outlive  us  ? 
Some  more  substantial  boon 
Than  such  as  flows  and  ebbs  with  For- 
tune's fickle  moon  ? 
The  little  that  we  see 
From  doubt  is  never  free  ; 
The  little  that  we  do 
Is  but  half-nobly  true  ; 
With  our  laborious  hiving 
What  men  call  treasure,  and  the  gods 
call  dross, 
Life  seems  a  jest  of  Fate's  contriving, 
Only  secure  in  every  one's  conniving, 
A  long  account  of  nothings  paid  with 

loss, 
Where  we  poor  puppets,  jerked  by  un- 
seen wires, 
After  our  little  hour  of  strut  and  rave, 
With  all  our  pasteboard  passions  and 

desires, 
Loves,  hates,  ambitions,  and  immortal 
fires, 
Are  tossed  pell-mell  together  in  the 

grave. 
But  stay  I  no  age  was  e'er  degenerate, 
Unless  men  held  it  at  too  cheapa  rate, 
For  in  our  likeness  still  we  shape  our 
fate 
Ah,  there  is  something  here 
Unfathomed  by  the  cynic's  sneer, 
Something  that  gives  our  feeble  light 
A  high  immunity  from  Night, 
Something  that  leaps  life's   narrow 
bars 


COMMEMORATION  ODE. 


43i 


To  claim  its  birthright  with  the  hosts 
of  heaven ; 
A  seed  of  sunshine  that  doth  leaven 
Our  earthly  dulness  with  the  beams 
of  stars, 
And  glorify  our  clay 
With  light  from  fountains  elder  than 
the  Day  ; 
A  conscience  more  divine  than  we, 
A  gladness  fed  with  secret  tears, 
A  vexing,  forward-reaching  sense 
Of  some  more  noble  permanence  ; 
A  light  across  the  sea, 
Which  haunts  the  soul  and  will  not 
let  it  be, 
Still  glimmering  from  the   heights  of 
undegenerate  years. 


Whither  leads  the  path 
To  ampler  fates  that  leads  ? 
Not    down    through    flowery 

meads, 
To  reap  an  aftermath 
Of  youth's  vainglorious  weeds, 
But  up  the  steep,  amid  the  wrath 
And  shock  of  deadly-hostile  creeds, 
Where  the  world's  best  hope  and 
stay 
By  battle's  flashes  gropes  a  desperate 

way, 
And  every  turf  the  fierce  foot  clings-to 
bleeds. 
Peace  hath  her  not  ignoble  wreath, 
Ere  yet  the  sharp,  decisive  word 
Light  the  black  lips  of  cannon,  and  the 
sword 
Dreams  in  its  easeful  sheath  ; 
But  some  day  the  live  coal  behind  the 
thought, 
Whether  from  Baal's  stone  ob- 
scene, 
Or  from  the  shrine  serene 
Of  God's  pure  altar  brought, 
Bursts  up  in  flame  ;  the  war  of  tongue 

and  pen 
Learns  with  what  deadly  purpose   it 

was  fraught, 
And,    helpless    in    the    fiery   passion 

caught, 
Shakes  all  the  pillared  state  with  shock 

of  men  : 
Some  day  the  soft  Ideal  that  we  wooed 


Confronts  us  fiercely,  foe-beset, pursued, 
And  cries  reproachful :  "  W  as  it,  then, 

my  praise, 
And  not  myself  was  loved  ?  Prove  now 

thy  truth ; 
I   claim   of  thee   the  promise  of  thy 

youth  ; 
Give   me  thy  life,  or  cower  in   empty 

phrase, 
The  victim  of  thy  genius,  not  its  mate  ! " 
Life  may  be  given  in  many  ways, 
And  loyalty  to  Truth  be  sealed 
As  bravely  in  the  closet  as  the  field, 
So  bountiful  is  Fate  ; 
But  then  to  stand  beside  her, 
When  craven  churls  deride  her, 
To  front  a  lie  in  arms  and  not  to  yield, 
This    shows,    methinks,    God's 

plan 
And  measure  of  a  stalwart  man, 
Limbed    like    the    old    heroic 

breeds, 
Who  stand  self-poised  on  man- 
hood's solid  earth, 
Not  forced  to  frame  excuses  for  his 
birth, 
Fed  from  within  with  all  the  strength 
he  needs. 


VI. 

Such  was  he,  our  Martyr-Chief, 

Whom  late  the  Nation  he  had  led, 
With  ashes  on  her  head, 
Wept  with   the   passion   of   an  angry 

grief : 
Forgive   me,  if  from   present  things  I 

turn 
To  speak  what  in  my  heart  will  beat 

and  bum, 
And  hang   my  wreath  on   his  worlds 
honored  urn. 
Nature,  they  say,  doth  dote, 
And  cannot  make  a  man 
Save  on  some  worn-out  plan, 
Repeating  us  by  rote  : 
For  him  her  Old  World  moulds  aside 
she  threw, 
And,  choosing  sweet  clay  from  the 
breast 
Of  the  unexhausted  West, 
With  stuff   untainted  shaped  a  hera 
new, 


432 


COMMEMORATION  ODE. 


Wise,  steadfast  in  the  strength  of  God, 
and  true. 
How  beautiful  to  see 
Once  more  a  shepherd  of  mankind  in- 
deed, 
Who  loved  his  charge,  but  never  loved 

to  lead ; 
One  whose  meek  flock  the  people  joyed 
to  be, 
Not  lured  by  any  cheat  of  birth, 
But   by  his  clear-grained   human 
worth, 
And  brave  old  wisdom  of  sincerity  ! 
They  knew  that  outward  grace  is 

dust ; 
They  could  not  choose  but  trust 
In  that  sure-footed  mind's  unfaltering 
skill, 
And  supple-tempered  will 
That  bent  like  perfect  steel  to  spring 
again  and  thrust. 
His  was  no  lonely  mountain-peak 

of  mind, 
Thrusting  to  thin  air  o'er  our  cloudy 

bars, 
A  sea-mark  now,  now  lost  in  vapors 

blind  ; 
Broad  prairie  rather,  genial,  level- 
lined, 
Fruitful  and  friendly  for  all  human 
kind, 
Yet  also  nigh  to  heaven  and  loved  of 
loftiest  stars. 
Nothing  of  Europe  here, 
Or,  then,  of  Europe  fronting  mornward 
still, 
Ere  any  names  of  Serf  and  Peer 
Could  Nature's  equal  scheme  de- 
face '; 
Here  was  a  type  of  the  true  elder 
race, 
And  one  of  Plutarch's  men  talked  with 
us  face  to  face. 
I  praise  him  not  ;  it  were  too  late  ; 
And  some  innative  weakness  there  must 

be 
In  him  who  condescends  to  victory 
Such  as  the  Present  gives,  and  cannot 
wait, 
Safe  in  himself  as  in  a  fate. 
So  always  firmly  he  : 
He  knew  to  bide  his  time, 
And  can  his  fame  abide, 
Still  patient  in  his  simple  faith  subline, 


Till  the  wise  years  decide. 
Great  captains,  with  their  guns  and 
drums, 
Disturb  our  judgment  for  the  hour, 
But  at  last  silence  comes  ; 
These   all   are   gone,  and,   standing 

like  a  toWer, 
Our  children  shall  behold  his  fame, 
The  kindly-earnest,  brave,  foresee- 
ing man, 
Sagacious,    patient,    dreading    praise, 
not  blame, 
New  birth  of  our  new  soil,  the  first 
American. 


Long  as   man's  hope   insatiate   can 

discern 
Or  only  guess  some  more  inspir- 
ing goal 
Outside  of  Self,  enduring  as   the 

pole, 
Along  whose  course  the  flying  axle* 

burn 
Of   spirits    bravely-pitched,    earth's 

manlier  brood  ; 
Long  as  below  we  cannot  find 
The  meed  that  stills  the  inexorable 

mind  ; 
So  long  this  faith  to  some  ideal  Good, 
Under    whatever    mortal    names    it 

masks, 
Freedom,   Law,  Country,   this  ethe- 
real mood 
That  thanks  the  Fates  for  their  severer 

tasks, 
Feeling  its  challenged  pulses  leap, 
While   others  skulk   in    subterfuges 

cheap, 
And,  set  in  Danger's  van,  has  all  the 

boon  it  asks, 
Shall  win  man's  praise  and  woman's 

love, 
Shall  be  a  wisdom  that  we  set  above 
A 'J  other  skills  and  gifts  to  culture  dear, 
A  virtue   round  whose   forehead  we 

inwreathe 
Laurels  that  with  a  living   passion 

Breathe 
When    other   crowns  grow,   while   we 

twine  them,  sear. 
What  brings  us  thronging  these  l«gh 

rites  to  pay, 


COMMEMORATION  ODE. 


433 


And  seal  these  hours  the  noblest  of  our 
year, 
Save  that  our  brothers  found   this 
better  way  ? 


We  sit  here  in  the  Promised  Land 
That   flows   with    Freedom's   honey 

and  milk  ; 
But  't  was  they  won  it,  sword  in  hand, 
Making  the  nettle  danger  soft  for  us  as 
silk. 
We  welcome  back   our  bravest  and 

our  best  ;  — 
Ah  me  !  not  all  !  some  come  not  with 
the  rest, 
Who  went  forth   brave   and  bright  as 

any  here  ! 
I  strive  to  mix  some  gladness  with  my 
strain, 
But  the  sad  strings  complain, 
And  will  not  please  the  ear  : 
I  sweep  them  for  a  paean,  but  they  wane 

Again  and  yet  again 
Into  a  dirge,  and  die  away,in  pain. 
In   these  brave  ranks  I   only  see  the 

gaps, 
Thinking  of  dear  ones  whom  the  dumb 

turf  wraps, 
Dark  to  the  triumph  which  they  died 
to  gain  : 
Fitlier  may  others  greet  the  living, 
For  me  the  past  is  unforgiving  ; 
I  with  uncovered  head 
Salute  the  sacred  dead, 
Who  went,  and  who  return  not.  —  Say 

not  so  ! 
'T  is  not  the  grapes  of  Canaan  that  re- 
pay. 
But  the  high  faith  that  failed  not  by 

the  way  ; 
Virtue  treads  paths  that  end  not  in  the 

grave  ; 
No  bar   of   endless    night  exiles  the 
brave  ; 
And  to  the  saner  mind 
We  rather  seem  the  dead  that  stayed 

behind. 
Blow,   trumpets,   all   your  exultations 

blow  ! 
For  never  shall  their  aureoled  presence 

lack  : 
I  see  them  muster  in  a  gleaming  row, 
•S 


With  ever-youthful  brows  that  nobler 

show  ; 
We  find  in  our  dull  road  their  shining 
track  ; 
In  every  nobler  mood 
We  feel  the  orient  of  their  spirit  glow, 
Part  of  our  life's  unalterable  good, 
Of  all  our  saintlier  aspiration  ; 

They  come  transfigured  back. 
Secure    from    change   in    their    high- 
hearted ways, 
Beautiful  evermore,  and  with  the  rays 
Of  morn  on  their  white  Shields  of  Ex- 
pectation ! 


But  is  there  hope  to  save 
Even  this  ethereal  essence  from  the 

grave  ? 
What  ever  'scaped  Oblivion's  subtle 
wrong 
Save  a  few  clarion  names,  or  golden 
threads  of  song? 
Before  my  musing  eye 
The  mighty  ones  of  old  sweep  by, 
Disvoiced    now    and    insubstantial 

things, 
As  noisy  once  as  we ;  poor  ghosts  of 

kings, 
Shadows  of  empire  wholly  gone  to 

dust, 
And  many  races,  nameless  long  ago, 
To  darkness  driven  by  that  imperious 

gust 
Of  ever-rushing  Time  that  here  doth 

blow  : 
O  visionary  world,  condition  strange, 
Where  naught  abiding  is  but  only 
Change, 
Where  the  deep-bolted  stars  themselves 
still  shift  and  range  1 
Shall  we  to  more  continuance  make 
pretence  ? 
Renown  builds  tombs  ;  a  life-estate  is 
Wit: 
And,  bit  by  bit, 
The  cunning  years  steal  all  from  us  but 
woe  ; 
Leaves  are  we,  whose  decays  no  har- 
vest sow. 
But,  when  we  vanish  hence. 
Shall  they  lie  forceless  in  the  dark 
below, 


434 


COMMEMORA  TION  ODE. 


Save  to  make  green  their  little  length 

of  sods, 
Or  deepen  pansies  for  a  year  or  two, 
Who  now  to  us  are  shming-sweet  as 

gods? 
Was  dying  all  they  had  the  skill  to 

do? 
That  were  not  fruitless  :  but  the  Soul 

resents 
Such  short-lived  service,  as  if  blind 

events 
Ruled  without  her,  or  earth  could  so 

endure  ; 
She  claims  a  more  divine  investiture 
Of  longer  tenure  than  Fame's  airy 

rents  ; 
Whate'er  she  touches  doth  her  nature 

share  ; 
Her  inspiration  haunts  the  ennobled 

air, 
Gives  eyes  to  mountains  blind, 
Ears  to  the  deaf  earth,  voices  to  the 

wind, 
And   her  clear  trump   sings   succor 

everywhere 
By  lonely   bivouacs  to  the  wakeful 

mind  ; 
For  soul  inherits  all  that  soul  could 

dare  : 
Yea,  Manhood  hath  a  wider  span 
And  larger  privilege  of  life  than  man. 
The  single  deed,  the  private  sacrifice, 
So  radiant  now  through  proudly- 
hidden  tears, 
Is  covered  up  erelong  from  mortal 

eyes 
With  thoughtless  drift  of  the  decidu- 
ous years  ; 
But  that  high  privilege  that  makes  all 

men  peers, 
That  leap  of  hean  whereby  a  people 

rise 
Up  to  a  noble  anger's  height, 
And,  flamed  on  by  the  Fates,  not  shrink, 

but  grow  more  bright, 
That  swift  validity  in  noble  veins, 
Of  choosing  danger  and  disdaining 

shame, 

Of  being  set  on  flame 
By  the  pure  fire  tha*  flies  all  contact 

base, 
But    wraps    its    chosen    with    angelic 

might, 
These  are  imperishable  gains, 


Sure  as  the  sun,  medicinal  as  light, 
These  hold  great  futures  in  their  lusty 
reins 
And  certify   to  earth  a  new  imperial 
race. 


Who  now  shall  sneer? 
Who  dare  again  to  say  we  trace 
Our  lines  to  a  plebeian  race  ? 
Roundhead  and  Cavalier ! 
Dumb   are  those   names    erewhile  it* 

battle  loud  ; 
Dream-footed  as  the  shadow  of  a  cloud, 

They  flit  across  the  ear  : 
That  is  best  blood  that  hath  most  iron 

in  't 
To  edge  resolve  with,  pouring  without 
stint 
For  what  makes  manhood  dear. 
Tell  us  not  of  Plantagenets, 
Hapsburgs,    and   Guelfs,    whose    thin 

bloods  crawl 
Down   from  some  victor  in   a  border- 
brawl  ! 
How  poor  their  outworn  coronets, 
Matched  with   one   leaf  of  that  plain 

civic  wreath 
Our  brave  for  honor's  blazon  shall  be- 
queath, 
Through  whose  desert  a  rescued  Na- 
tion sets 
Her  heel  on  treason,  and  the  trumpet 

hears 
Shout  victory,  tingling  Europe's  sullen 
ears 
With  vain  resentments  and  more  vain 
regrets  ! 


Not  in  anger,  not  in  pride, 
Pure  from  passion's  mixture  rude 
Ever  to  base  earth  allied, 
But  with  far-heard  gratitude, 
Still   with   heart    and  voice   re- 
newed, 
To  heroes  living  and   dear  martyrs 
dead, 
The  strain  should  close  that  consecrates 
our  brave. 
Lift  the  heart  and  lift  the  head  ! 
Lofty  be  its  mood  and  grave. 


COMMEMORATION  ODE. 


435 


Not  without  a  martial  ring, 
Not  without  a  prouder  tread 
And  a  peal  of  exultation  : 
Little  right  has  he  to  sing 
Through  whose  heart  in  such  an 

hour 
Beats    no    march    of  conscious 

power, 
Sweeps  no  tumult  of  elation  ! 
'T  is  no  Man  we  celebrate, 
By  his  country's  victories  great, 
A  hero  half,  and  half  the  whim  of 
Fate, 
But  the  pith  and  marrow  of  a 

Nation 
Drawing  force  from  all  her  men, 
Highest,  humblest,  weakest,  all, 
•     For  her  time  of  need,  and  then 
Pulsing  it  again  through  them, 
Till  the  basest  can  no  longer  cower, 
Feeling  his  soul  spring  up  divinely  tall, 
Touched  but  in  passing  by  her  mantle- 
hem. 
Come  back,  then,  noble  pride,  for  't  is 
her  dower ! 
How  could  poet  ever  tower, 
If  his  passions,  hopes,  and  fears, 
If  his  triumphs  and  his  tears, 
Kept  not  measure  with  his  peo- 
ple? 
Boom,  cannon,  boom  to  all  the  winds 

and  waves  ! 
Clash  out,  glad  bells,  from  every  rock- 
ing steeple  1 
Banners,   adance  with  triumph,   bend 
your  staves  1 
And  from  every  mountain-peak 
Let  beacon-fire  to  answering  bea- 
con speak, 
Katahdin  tell  Monadnock,  White- 
face  he, 
And  so  leap  on  in  light  from  sea  to  sea, 
Till  the  glad  news  be  sent 
Across  a  kindling  continent, 
Making  earth  feel  more  firm  and  air 

breathe  braver : 
'Be  proud  !   for  she  is  saved,  and  all 
have  helped  to  save  her  ! 
She  that  lifts  up  the  manhood  of 

the  poor, 
She  of  the  open  soul  and  open  door, 
With  room  about  her  hearth  for  all 

mankind  ! 
The  fire  is  dreadful  in  her  eyes  no 
more ; 


From  her  bold  front  the  helm  she 

doth  unbind, 
Sends   all    her    handmaid    armies 

back  to  spin, 
And  bids  her  navies,  that  so  lately 

hurled 
Their  crashing  battle,  hold  their 

thunders  in, 
Swimming  like  birds  of  calm  along 

the  unharmful  shore. 
No  challenge  sends  she  to  the  eldei 

world, 
That  looked  askance  and  hated  ;  a 

light  scorn 
Plays  o'er  her  mouth,  as  round  her 

mighty  knees 
She   calls  her  children  back,  and 

waits  the  morn 
Of  nobler  day,  enthroned  between  her 

subject  seas." 


Bow  down,  dear   Land,   for  thou  hast 
found  release  ! 
Thy    God,     in    these    distempered 

days, 
Hath  taught  thee  the  sure  wisdom  of 
His  ways, 
And     through    thine    enemies     hath 
wrought  thy  peace  ! 
Bow  down  in  prayer  and  praise  ! 
No  poorest  in  thy  borders  but  may  now 
Lift  to  the  juster  skies  a  man's  enfran- 
chised brow, 
O  Beautiful  !   my  Country !   ours  once 

more  ! 
Smoothing  thy  gold  of  war-dishevelled 

hair 
O'er  such  sweet  brows  as  never  other 
wore, 
And  letting  thy  set  lips, 
Freed  from  wrath's  pale  eclipse, 
The  rosy  edges  of  their  smile  lay  bare, 
What  words  divine  of  lover  or  of  poet 
Could    tell   our  love  and   make    thee 

know  it, 
Among    the    Nations    bright   beyond 
compare  ? 
What    were   our   lives    without 

thee? 
What  all  our  lives  to  save  thee? 
We  reck  not  what  we  gave  thee  ; 
We  will  not  dare  to  doubt  thee, 
But  ask  whatever  else,   and  we  will 
dare  1 


436 


V  ENVOI. 


L'ENVOI. 


TO   THE    MUSE. 


Whither  ?    Albeit  I  follow  fast, 

In  all  life's  circuit  I  but  find, 
Not  where   thou  art,  but   where  thou 
wast, 

Sweet   beckoner,   more    fleet    than 
wind  I 
I  haunt  the  pine-dark  solitudes, 

With  soft  brown  silence  carpeted, 
And  plot  to  snare  thee  in  the  woods  : 

Peace  I  o'ertake,  but  thou  art  fled  ! 
I  find  the  rock  where  thou  didst  rest, 
The    moss   thy  skimming     foot    hath 
prest ; 

All  Nature  with  thy  parting  thrills, 
Like  branches  after  birds  new-flown  ; 

Thy  passage  hill  and  hollow  fills 
With  hints  of  virtue  not  their  own  ; 
In  dimples  still  the  water  slips 
Where  thou  hast  dipt  thy  finger-tips; 

Just,  just  beyond,  forever  burn 

Gleams  of  a  grace  without  return  ; 

Upon  thy  shade  I  plant  my  foot, 
And   through   my  frame   strange   rap- 
tures shoot ; 
All  of  thee  but  thyself  I  grasp  ; 

I  seem  to  fold  thy  luring  shape, 
And  vague  air  to  my  bosom  clasp, 

Thou  lithe,  perpetual  Escape  ! 

One  mask  and  then  another  drops, 
And  thou  art  secret  as  before  : 
Sometimes  with  flooded  ear  I  list, 
And  hear  thee,  wondrous  organist, 
From  mighty  continental  stops 
A  thunder  of  new  music  pour  ; 
Through   pipes   of  earth   and  air  and 

stone 
Thy  inspiration  deep  is  blown  ; 
Through     mountains,     forests,     open 

downs, 
Lakes,   railroads,  prairies,  states,  and 

towns. 
Thy  gathering  fugue  goes  rolling  on 


From  Maine  to  utmost  Oregon  ; 
The  factory-wheels  in  cadence  hum, 
From  brawling  parties  concords  come; 
All  this  I  hear,  or  seem  to  hear, 
But  when,  enchanted,  I  draw  near 
To  mate  with  words  the  various  theme, 
Life  seems  a  whiff  of  kitchen  steam, 
History  an  organ-grinder's  thrum, 

For  thou  hast  slipt  from  it  and  me 
And  all  thine  organ-pipes  left  dumb, 

Most  mutable  Perversity  ! 

Not  weary  yet,  I  still  must  seek, 
And  hope  for  luck  next  day,  next  week ; 
I  go  to  see  the  great  man  ride. 
Shiplike,  the  swelling  human  tide 
That  floods  to  bear  him  into  port, 
Trophied  from  Senate-hall  and  Court ; 
Thy  magnetism,  I  feel  it  there, 
Thy  rhythmic  presence  fleet  and  rare, 
Making  the  Mob  a  moment  fine 
With  glimpses  of  their  own  Divine, 
As  in  their  demigod  they  see 

Their  cramped  ideal  soaring  free  ; 
'T  was  thou  didst  bear  the  fire  about, 

That,  like  the  springing  of  a  mine 
Sent    up    to    heaven   the    street-long 

shout ; 
Full  well  I  know  that  thou  wast  here, 
It  was  thy  breath  that  brushed  my  ear-. 
But  vainly  in  the  stress  and  whirl 
I  dive  for  thee,  the  moment's  pearl. 

Through  every  shape  thou  well   canst 
run, 

Proteus,  'twixt  rise  and  set  of  sun, 

Well    pleased    with    logger-camps     in 
Maine 
As  where  Milan's  pale  Duomo  lies 

A  stranded  glacier  on  the  plain, 
Its  peaks  and  pinnacles  of  ice 
Melted  in  many  a  quaint  device, 

And  sees,  abov-i  the  city's  din, 


TO   THE   MUSE. 


437 


Afar  its  silent  Alpine  kin  : 

I  track  thee  over  carpets  deep 

To  wealth's  and  beauty's  inmost  keep  ; 

Across  the  sand  of  bar-room  floors 

'Mid  the  stale  reek  of  boosing  boors  ; 

Where  drowse  the  hay-field's  fragrant 

heats, 
Or  the  flail-heart  of  Autumn  beats  ; 
I  dog  thee  through  the  market's  throngs 
To  where  the  sea  with  myriad  tongues 
Laps  the  green  edges  of  the  pier, 
And  the  tall  ships  that  eastward  steer, 
Curtsey  their  farewells  to  the  town, 
O'er    the    curved    distance    lessening 

down  ; 
I  follow  allwhere  for  thy  sake. 
Touch  thy  robe's  hem,  but  ne'er  o'er- 

take, 
Find  where,  scarce  yet  unmoving,  lies, 
Warm  from  thy  limbs,  thy  last  disguise  ; 
But  thou  another  shape  hast  donned, 
And  lurest  still  just,  just  beyond  ! 

But  here  a  voice.  I  know  not  whence, 
Thrills  clearly  through  my  inward  sense, 
Saying  :  "  See  where  she  sits  at  home 
While  thou  in  search  of  her  dost  roam  ! 
All  summer  long  her  ancient  wheel 

Whirls  humming  by  the  open  door, 
Or,  when  the  hickory's  social  zeal 

Sets  the  wide  chimney  in  a  roar, 
Close-nestled  by  the  tinkling  hearth, 
It  modulates  the  household  mirth 
With  that  sweet  serious  undertone 
Of  duty,  music  all  her  own  ; 
Still  as  of  old  she  sits  and  spins 
Our  hopes,  our  sorrows,  and  our  sins  ; 
With  equal  care  she  twines  the  fates 
Of  cottages  and  mighty  states  ; 
She  spins  the  earth,  the  air,  the  sea, 
The  maiden's  unschooled  fancy  free, 
The  boy's  first  love,  the  man's  first  grief, 
The  budding  and  the  fall  o'  the  leaf ; 


The  piping  west-wind's  snowy  care 
For  her  their  cloudy  fleeces  spare, 
Or  from  the  thorns  of  evil  times 
She  can  glean  wool  to  twist  her  rhymes  ; 
Morning  and  noon  and  eve  supply 
To  her  their  fairest  tints  for  dye, 
But  ever  through  her  twirling  thread 
There  spires  one  line  of  warmest  red, 
Tinged   from   the   homestead's    genial 

heart, 
The  stamp  and  warrant  of  her  art ; 
With  this  Time's  sickle  she  outwears, 
And  blunts  the  Sisters'  baffled  shears. 

"  Harass  her  not  :  thy  heat  and  stir 
But  greater  coyness  breed  in  her  ; 
Yet  thou  mayst  find,  ere  Age's  frost. 
Thy  long  apprenticeship  not  lost, 
Learning  at  last  that  Stygian  Fate 
Unbends  to  him  that  knows  to  wait. 
The  Muse  is  womanish,  nor  deigns 
Her  love  to  him  that  pules  and  plains; 
With  proud,  averted  face  she  stands 
To  him  that  wooes  with  empty  hands. 
Make  thyself  free  of  Manhood's  guild  ; 
Pull  down  thy  barns  and  greater  build, ; 
The  wood,  the  mountain,  and  the  plain 
Wave  breast-deep  with  the  poet's  grain  ; 
Pluck  thou  the  sunset's  fruit  of  gold, 
Glean  from  the  heavens  and  ocean  old  ; 
From  fireside  lone  and  trampling  street 
Let  thy  life  garner  daily  wheat  ; 
The  epic  of  a  man  rehearse, 
Be  something  better  than  thy  verse  ; 
Make  thyself  rich,  and  then  the  Muse 
Shall  court  thy  precious  interviews, 
Shall  take  thy  head  upon  her  knee, 
And  such  enchantment  lilt  to  thee, 
That  thou  shalt  hear  the  life-blood  flow 
From    farthest    stars    to    grass-blades 

low, 
And  find  the  Listener's  science  still 
Transcends  the  Singer's  deepest  skill ! " 


THE    CATHEDRAL. 


Far  through  the  memory  shines  a  happy 
day, 

Cloudless  of  care,  down-shod  to  every 
sense, 

And  simply  perfect  from  its  own  re- 
source, 

As  to  a  bee  the  new  campanula's 

Illuminate  seclusion  swung  in  air. 

Such  days  are  not  the  prey  of  setting 
suns, 

Nor  ever  blurred  with  mist  of  after- 
thought ; 

Like  words  made  magical  by  poets  dead, 

Wherein  the  music  of  all  meaning  is 

The  sense  hath  garnered  or  the  soul  di- 
vined, 

They  mingle  with  our  life's  ethereal 
part, 

Sweetening  and  gathering  sweetness 
evermore, 

By  beauty's  franchise  disenthralled  of 
time. 

I  can  recall,  nay,  they  are  present  still. 

Parts  of  myself,  the  perfume  of  my 
mind, 

Days  that  seem  farther  off  than  Homer's 
now 

Ere-yet  the  child  had  loudened  to  the 
boy, 

And  I,  recluse  from  playmates,  found 
perforce 

Companionship  in  things  that  not  de- 
nied 

Nor  granted  wholly;  as  is  Nature's 
wont, 

Who,  safe  in  uncontaminate  reserve, 

Lets  us  mistake  our  longing  for  herlove. 

And  mocks  with  various  echo  of  our- 
selves. 

These  first  sweet  frauds  upon  our  con- 
sciousness, 

That  blend  the  sensual  with  its  imaged 
world, 


These  virginal  cognitions,  gifts  of  morn, 
Ere  life  grow  noisy,  and  slower-footed 

thought 
Can  overtake  the  rapture  of  the  sense, 
To  thrust  between  ourselves  and  what 

we  feel, 
Have  something  in  them  secretly  divine. 
Vainly  the  eye,  once  schooled  to  serve 

the  brain, 
With  pains  deliberate  studies  to  renew 
The  ideal  vision  :  second-thoughts  are 

prose ; 
For  beauty's  acme  hath  a  term  as  brief 
As  the  wave's  poise  before  it  break  in 

pearl. 
Our  own  breath  dims  the  mirror  of  the 

sense, 
Looking  too  long  and  closely :  at  a  flash 
We  snatch  the  essential  grace  of  mean- 
ing out, 
And  that  first  passion  beggars  all  be- 
hind, 
Heirs  of  a  tamer  transport  prepossessed. 
Who,  seeing  once,  has  truly  seen  again 
The  gray  vague  of  unsymp'athizing  sea 
That  dragged  his  Fancy  from  her  moor- 
ings back 
To  shores  inhospitable  of  eldest  time, 
Till  blank  foreboding  of  earth-gendered 

powers, 
Pitiless  seignories  in  the  elements, 
Omnipotences     blind     that     darkling 

smite, 
Misgave    him,   and    repaganized    the 

world  ? 
Yet,  by  some  subtler  touch  of  sympathy, 
These     primal    apprehensions,    dimly 

stirred, 
Perplex  the  eye  with  pictures  from  with- 
in. 
This  hath  made  poets  dream  of  lives 

foregone 
In  worlds  fantastical,  more  fair  than 
ours ; 


442 


THE   CATHEDRAL. 


So  Memory  cheats  us,  glimpsing  half- 
revealed. 

Even  as  I  write  she  tries  her  wonted 
spell 

In  that  continuous  redbreast  boding 
rain  : 

The  bird  I  hear  sings  not  from  yonder 
elm  ; 

But  the  flown  ecstasy  my  childhood 
heard 

Is  vocal  in  my  mind,  renewed  by  him, 

Haply  made  sweeter  by  the  accumulate 
thrill 

That  threads  my  undivided  life  and 
steals 

A  pathos  from  the  years  and  graves  be- 
tween. 

I  know  not  how  it  is  with  other  men, 

Whom  I  but  guess,  deciphering  my- 
self; 

For  me,  once  felt  is  so  felt  nevermore. 

The  fleeting  relish  at  sensation's  brim 

Had  in  it  the  best  ferment  of  the  wine. 

One  spring  I  knew  as  never  any  since  : 

All  night  the  surges  of  the  warm  south- 
west 

Boomed  intermittent  through  the  shud- 
dering elms, 

And  brought  a  morning  from  the  Gulf 
adrift, 

Omnipotent  with  sunshine,  whose  quick 
charm 

Startled  with  crocuses  the  sullen  turf 

And  wiled  the  bluebird  to  his  whiff  of 
song : 

One  summer  hour  abides,  what  time  I 
perched, 

Dappled  with  noonday,  under  simmer- 
ing leaves, 

And  pulled  the  pulpy  oxhearts,  while 
aloof 

An  oriole  clattered  and  the  robins 
shrilled, 

Denouncing  me  an  alien  and  a  thief: 

One  morn  of  autumn  lords  it  o'er  the 
rest, 

When  in  the  lane  I  watched  the  ash- 
leaves  fall, 

Balancing  softly  earthward  without 
wind, 

Or  twirling  with  directer  impulse  down 

On  those  fallen  yesterday,  now  barbed 
with  frost, 


While  I  grew  pensive  with  the  pensive 

year: 
And  once   I   learned  how  marvellous 

winter  was, 
When  past  the  fence-rails,  downy-gray 

with  rime, 
I  creaked  adventurous  o'er  the  span- 
gled crust 
That  made  familiar  fields  seem  far  and 

strange 
As  those  stark  wastes  that  whiten  end- 
lessly 
In  ghastly  solitude  about  the  pole, 
And  gleam  relentless  to  the  unsetting 

sun  : 
Instant  the  candid  chambers  of  my  brain 
Were  painted  with  these  sovran  images; 
And  later  visions  seem  but  copies  pale 
From  those  unfading  frescos  of  the  past, 
Which  I,  young  savage,  in  my  age  of 

flint, 
Gazed  at,  and  dimly  felt  a  power  in  me 
Parted  from  Nature  by  the  joy  in  her 
That  doubtfully  revealed  me  to  myself. 
Thenceforward  I  must  stand  outside  the 

gate  ; 
And  paradise  was  paradise  the  more, 
Known  once  and  barred  against  satiety. 

What  we  call  Nature,  all  outside  «ur- 

selves, 
Is  but  our  own  conceit  of  what  we  see, 
Our  own  reaction  upon  what  we  feel  ,• 
The  world's  a  woman  to  our  shifting 

mood, 
Feeling  with  us,  or  making  due  pre- 
tence ; 
And  therefore  we  the  more  persuade 

ourselves 
To  make  all  things  our  thought's  con- 
federates, 
Conniving  with  us  in  whate'er  we  dream. 
So  when  our  Fancy  seeks  analogies, 
Though  she  have  hidden  what  she  after 

finds, 
She  loves  to  cheat  herself  with  feigned 

surprise. 
I  find  my  own  complexion  everywhere  : 
No  rose,  I  doubt,  was  ever,  like  the  first, 
A  marvel  to  the  bush  it  dawned  upon, 
The  rapture  of  its  life  made  visible, 
The  mystery  of  its  yearning  realized, 
As  the  first  babe  to  the  first  woman 
born  ; 


THE   CATHEDRAL. 


443 


No  falcon  ever  felt  delight  of  wings 
As  when,  an  eyas,  from  the  stolid  cliff 
Loosing  himself,  he  followed  his  high 

heart 
To  swim   on   sunshine,  masterless  as 

wind ; 
And  I   believe  the  brown  earth  takes 

delight 
In  the  new  snowdrop  looking  back  at  her, 
To  think  that  by  some  vernal  alchemy 
It  could  transmute   her  darkness  into 

pearl ; 
What  is  the  buxom  peony  after  that, 
With  its  coarse  constancy  of  hoyden 

blush: 
What  the  full  summer  to  that  wonder 

new? 

But,  if  in  nothing  else,  in  us  there  is 
A  sense  fastidious  hardly  reconciled 
To  the  poor  makeshifts  of  life's  scenery, 
Where  the  same  slide  must  double  all 

its  parts, 
Shoved  in  for  Tarsus  and  hitched  back 

for  Tyre. 
I  blame  not  in  the  soul  this  daintiness, 
Rasher  of  surfeit  than  a  humming-bird, 
In  things  indifferent  by  sense  purveyed  ; 
It  argues  her  an  immortality 
And  dateless  incomes  of  experience, 
This  unthrift  housekeeping  that  will 

not  brook 
A  dish  warmed;over  at  the  feast  of  life, 
And   finds  Twice   stale,   served    with 

whatever  sauce. 
Nor  matters  much  how  it  may  go  with 

me 
Who  dwell  in   Grub   Street    and  am 

proud  to  drudge 
Where  men,  my  betters,  wet  their  crust 

with  tears : 
Use  can  make  sweet  the  peach's  shady 

side, 
That  only  by  reflection  tastes  of  sun. 

But  she,  my  Princess,  who  will  some- 
times deign 

My  garret  to  illumine  till  the  walls, 

Narrow  and  dingy,  scrawled  with  hack- 
neyed thought 

(Poor  Richard  slowly  elbowing  Plato 
out), 

Dilate  and  drape  themselves  with  tapes- 
tries 


Nausikaa    might    have    stooped  o'er, 

while,  between, 
Mirrors,  effaced  in  their  own  clearness, 

send 
Her  only  image  on  through  deepening 

deeps 
With  endless  repercussion  of  delight,  — 
Bringer  of  life,  witching  each  sense  to 

soul, 
That  sometimes  almost  gives  me  to 

believe 
I  might  have  been  a  poet,  gives  at  least 
A  brain  desaxonized,  an  ear  that  makes 
Music  where  none  is,  and  a  keener  pang 
Of      exquisite      surmise      outleaping 

thought,  — 
Her  will  I  pamper  in  her  luxury  : 
No  crumpled  rose-leaf  of  too  careless 

choice  « 

Shall  bring  a  northern  nightmare  to  her 

dreams, 
Vexing  with  sense  of  exile  ;  hers  shall  be 
The  invitiate  firstlings  of  experience, 
Vibrations  felt  but  once  and  felt  life- 
long: 
O,  more  than  half-way  turn  that  Gre- 
cian front 
Upon  me,  while  with  self- rebuke  I  spell, 
On  the  plain   fillet  that  confines  thy 

hair 
In  conscious  bounds  of  seeming  uncon- 

straint, 
The  Naught  in  overplus,  thy  race's 

badge  ! 

One  feast  for  her  I  secretly  designed 
In  that  Old  World  so  strangely  beautifa' 
To  us  the  disinherited  of  eld, — 
A  day  at  Chartres,  with  no  soul  beside 
To  roil  with  pedant  prate  my  joy  serene 
And   make   the   minster  shy  of  confi- 
dence, 
I  went,  and,  with  the  Saxon's  pious  care, 
First  ordered  dinner  at  the  pea-green 

inn, 
The  flies  and  I  its  only  customers, 
Till  by  and  by  there  came  two  English- 
men, 
Who  made  me  feel,  in  their  engaging 

way, 
I  was  a  poacher  on  their  self-preserve, 
Intent  constructively  on  lese-anglicism. 
To  them   (in   those   old    razor-ridden 
days) 


442 


THE   CATHEDRAL. 


So  Memory  cheats  us,  glimpsing  half- 
revealed. 

Even  as  I  write  she  tries  her  wonted 
spell 

In  that  continuous  redbreast  boding 
rain  : 

The  bird  I  hear  sings  not  from  yonder 
elm  ; 

But  the  flown  ecstasy  my  childhood 
heard 

Is  vocal  in  my  mind,  renewed  by  him, 

Haply  made  sweeter  by  the  accumulate 
thrill 

That  threads  my  undivided  life  and 
steals 

A  pathos  from  the  years  and  graves  be- 
tween. 

I  know  not  how  it  is  with  other  men. 

Whom  I  but  guess,  deciphering  my- 
self; 

For  me,  once  felt  is  so  felt  nevermore. 

The  fleeting  relish  at  sensation's  brim 

Had  in  it  the  best  ferment  of  the  wine. 

One  spring  I  knew  as  never  any  since  : 

All  night  the  surges  of  the  warm  south- 
west 

Boomed  intermittent  through  the  shud- 
dering elms, 

And  brought  a  morning  from  the  Gulf 
adrift, 

Omnipotent  with  sunshine,  whose  quick 
charm 

Startled  with  crocuses  the  sullen  turf 

And  wiled  the  bluebird  to  his  whiff  of 
song  : 

One  summer  hour  abides,  what  time  I 
perched, 

Dappled  with  noonday,  under  simmer- 
ing leaves, 

And  pulled  the  pulpy  oxhearts,  while 
aloof 

An  oriole  clattered  and  the  robins 
shrilled, 

Denouncing  me  an  alien  and  a  thief: 

One  morn  of  autumn  lords  it  o'er  the 
rest, 

When  in  the  lane  I  watched  the  ash- 
leaves  fall, 

Balancing  softly  earthward  without 
wind, 

Or  twirling  with  directer  impulse  down 

On  those  fallen  yesterday,  now  barbed 
with  frost, 


While  I  grew  pensive  with  the  pensive 

year: 
And  once   I   learned  how  marvellous 

winter  was, 
When  past  the  fence-rails,  downy-gray 

with  rime, 
I  creaked  adventurous  o'er  the  span- 
gled crust 
That  made  familiar  fields  seem  far  and 

strange 
As  those  stark  wastes  that  whiten  end- 
lessly 
In  ghastly  solitude  about  the  pole, 
And  gleam  relentless  to  the  unsetting 

sun  : 
Instant  the  candid  chambers  of  my  brain 
Were  painted  with  these  sovran  images ; 
And  later  visions  seem  but  copies  pale 
From  those  unfading  frescos  of  the  past, 
Which  I,  young  savage,  in  my  age  of 

flint, 
Gazed  at,  and  dimly  felt  a  power  in  me 
Parted  from  Nature  by  the  joy  in  her 
That  doubtfully  revealed  me  to  myself. 
Thenceforward  I  must  stand  outside  the 

gate  ; 
And  paradise  was  paradise  the  more, 
Known  once  and  barred  against  satiety. 

What  we  call  Nature,  all  outside  «ur- 

selves, 
Is  but  our  own  conceit  of  what  we  see, 
Our  own  reaction  upon  what  we  feel  ; 
The  world's  a  woman  to  our  shifting 

mood, 
Feeling  with  us,  or  making  due  pre- 
tence ; 
And  therefore  we  the  more  persuade 

ourselves 
To  make  all  things  our  thought's  con- 
federates, 
Conniving  with  us  in  whate'er  we  dream. 
So  when  our  Fancy  seeks  analogies, 
Though  she  have  hidden  what  she  after 

finds, 
She  loves  to  cheat  herself  with  feigned 

surprise. 
I  find  my  own  complexion  everywhere  : 
No  rose,  I  doubt,  was  ever,  like  the  first, 
A  marvel  to  the  bush  it  dawned  upon, 
The  rapture  of  its  life  made  visible, 
The  mystery  of  its  yearning  realized, 
As  the  first  babe  to  the  first  woman 
born ; 


THE   CATHEDRAL. 


443 


No  falcon  ever  felt  delight  of  wings 
As  when,  an  eyas,  from  the  stolid  cliff 
Loosing  himself,  he  followed  his  high 

heart 
To  swim   on   sunshine,  masterless   as 

wind ; 
And  I   believe  the  brown  earth  takes 

delight 
In  the  new  snowdrop  looking  back  at  her, 
To  think  that  by  some  vernal  alchemy 
It  could  transmute   her  darkness  into 

pearl  ; 
What  is  the  buxom  peony  after  that, 
With  its  coarse  constancy  of  hoyden 

blush '. 
What  the  full  summer  to  that  wonder 

new? 

But,  if  in  nothing  else,  in  us  there  is 
A  sense  fastidious  hardly  reconciled 
To  the  poor  makeshifts  of  life's  scenery, 
Where  the  same  slide  must  double  all 

its  parts, 
Shoved  in  for  Tarsus  and  hitched  back 

for  Tyre. 
I  blame  not  in  the  soul  this  daintiness, 
Rasher  of  surfeit  than  a  humming-bird, 
In  things  indifferent  by  sense  purveyed  ; 
It  argues  her  an  immortality 
And  dateless  incomes  of  experience, 
This  unthrift  housekeeping  that  will 

not  brook 
A  dish  warmed-over  at  the  feast  of  life, 
And  finds  Twice  stale,   served    with 

whatever  sauce. 
Nor  matters  much  how  it  may  go  with 

me 
Who  dwell  in   Grub   Street    and  am 

proud  to  drudge 
Where  men,  my  betters,  wet  their  crust 

with  tears : 
Use  can  make  sweet  the  peach's  shady 

side, 
That  only  by  reflection  tastes  of  sun. 

But  she,  my  Princess,  who  will  some- 
times deign 

My  garret  to  illumine  till  the  walls, 

Narrow  and  dingy,  scrawled  with  hack- 
neyed thought 

(Poor  Richard  slowly  elbowing  Plato 
out). 

Dilate  and  drape  themselves  with  tapes- 
tries 


Nausikaa    might    have    stooped  o'er, 

while,  between, 
Mirrors,  effaced  in  their  own  clearness, 

send 
Her  only  image  on  through  deepening 

deeps 
With  endless  repercussion  of  delight,  — 
Bringer  of  life,  witching  each  sense  to 

soul, 
That  sometimes  almost  gives  me  to 

believe 
I  might  have  been  a  poet,  gives  at  least 
A  brain  desaxonized,  an  ear  that  makes 
Music  where  none  is,  and  a  keener  pang 
Of      exquisite      surmise      outleaping 

thought,  — 
Her  will  I  pamper  in  her  luxury  : 
No  crumpled  rose-leaf  of  too  careless 

choice  « 

Shall  bring  a  northern  nightmare  to  her 

dreams, 
Vexing  with  sense  of  exile  ;  hers  shall  be 
The  invitiate  firstlings  of  experience, 
Vibrations  felt  but  once  and  felt  life- 
long: 
O,  more  than  half-way  turn  that  Gre- 
cian front 
Upon  me,  while  with  self-rebuke  I  spell, 
On  the  plain  fillet  that  confines  thy 

hair 
In  conscious  bounds  of  seeming  uncon- 

straint, 
The  Naught  in  overplus,  thy  race's 

badge  ! 

One  feast  for  her  I  secretly  designed 
In  that  Old  World  so  strangely  beautifa' 
To  us  the  disinherited  of  eld, — 
A  day  at  Chartres,  with  no  soul  beside 
To  roil  with  pedant  prate  my  joy  serene 
And   make   the   minster  shy  of  confi- 
dence, 
I  went,  and,  with  the  Saxon's  pious  care, 
First  ordered  dinner  at  the  pea-green 

inn, 
The  flies  and  I  its  only  customers, 
Till  by  and  by  there  came  two  English- 
men, 
Who  made  me  feel,  in  their  engaging 

way, 
I  was  a  poacher  on  their  self-preserve, 
Intent  constructively  on  lese-anglicism. 
To  them   (in   those   old    razor-ridden 
days) 


444 


THE    CATHEDRAL. 


My    beard    translated    me   to    hostile 

French  ; 
So  they,  desiring  guidance  in  the  town, 
Half  condescended  to  my  baser  sphere, 
And,  clubbing  in  one  mess  their  lack  of 

phrase, 
Set  their  best  man  to  grapple  with  the 

Gaul. 
"Eskervousateanabitang?  "  he  asked  ; 
'•  I  never  ate  one  ;  are  they  good  ?  " 

asked  I  ; 
Whereat  they  stared,  then  laughed,  and 

we  were  friends, 
The  seas,  the  wars,  the  centuries  inter- 
posed, 
Abolishedin  the  truce  ofcommon  speech 
A'.id  mutual  comfort  of    the   mother- 
tongue. 
Like  escaped  convicts  of  Propriety, 
They  furtively  partook  the  joys  of  men, 
Glancing  behind    when   buzzed    some 
louder  fly. 

Eluding  these,  I  loitered  through  the 

town, 
With   hope  to  take  my  minster  una- 
wares 
In  its  grave  solitude  of  memory. 
A  pretty  burgh,  and  such  as  Fancy  loves 
For  bygone  grandeurs,  faintly  rumorous 

now 
Upon  the  mind's  horizon,  as  of  storm 
Brooding  its  dreamy  thunders  far  aloof, 
That  mingle  with  our  mood,  but  not 

disturb. 
I  ts  once  grim  bulwarks,  tamed  to  lovers' 

walks. 
Look  down  unwatchful  on  the  sliding 

Eure, 
Whose  listless  leisure  suits  the    quiet 

place, 
Lisping  among  his  shallows  homelike 

sounds 
At  Concord  and  by    Bankside    heard 

before. 
Chance  led  me  to  a   public  pleasure- 
ground, 
Where  I  grew  kindly  with  the  merry 

groups, 
And  blessed  the   Frenchman   for  his 

simple  art 
Of  being  domestic  in  the  light  of  day. 
His  language  has  no  word,  we  growl, 

for  Home  ; 


But  he  can  find  a  fireside  in  the  sun, 

Play  with  his  child,  make  love,  and 
shriek  his  mind, 

By  throngs  of  strangers  undisprivacied. 

He  makes  his  life  a  public  gallery, 

Nor  feels  himself  till  what  he  feels 
comes  back 

In  manifold  reflection  from  without; 

While  we,  each  pore  alert  with  con- 
sciousness, 

Hide  our  best  selves  as  we  had  stolen 
them, 

And  each  bystander  a  detective  were, 

Keen-eyed  for  every  chink  of  undisguise 

So,  musing  o'er  the  problem  which  was 

best,  — 
A     life    wide-windowed,    shining    all 

abroad, 
Or  curtains  drawn  to  shield  from  sight 

profane 
The  rites  we  pay  to  the  mysterious  I,  — 
With  outward   senses  furloughed  and 

head  bowed 
I   followed  some  fine  instinct  in  my 

feet, 
Till,  to  unbend  me  from  the  loom  of 

thought, 
Looking  up  suddenly,  I  found  mine  eyes 
Confronted  with  the  minster's  vast  re- 
pose. 
Silent  and  gray  as  forest-leaguered  cliff 
Left  inland  by  the  ocean's  slow  retreat, 
That  hears  afar  the  breeze-borne  rote, 

and  longs, 
Remembering  shocks  of  surf  that  clomb 

and  fell, 
Spume-sliding  down  the  baffled  decu- 
man, 
It  rose  before  me,  patiently  remote 
From  the  great  tides  of  life  it  breasted 

once, 
Hearing  the  noise  of  men  as  in  a  dream. 
I  stood  before  the  triple  northern  port. 
Where  dedicated  shapes  of  saints  and 

kings, 
Stern  faces   bleared   with  immemorial 

watch, 
Looked    down    benignly    grave    and 

seemed  to  say, 
Ye  come  and  go  incessant ;  ive  remain 
Safe  in  thehallo'wed  quiets  of  the  fist ; 
Be  reverent, ye  ivhoflit  and  are  forgot, 
Of  faith  so  nobly  realized  as  this. 


THE   CATHEDRAL. 


44S 


I  seem  to  have  heard  it  said  by  learned 

folk 
Who  drench  you  with  aesthetics  till  you 

feel  . 

As  if  all  beauty  were  a  ghastly  bore, 
The  faucet  to  let  loose  a  wash  of  words, 
That  Gothic  is  not  Grecian,  therefore 

worse  ; 
But,  being;  convinced  by  much  experi- 
ment 
How  little   inventiveness   there   is   in 

man, 
Grave  copier  of  copies,  I  give  thanks 
For  a  new  relish,  careless  to  inquire 
My  pleasure's  pedigree,  if  so  it  please, 
Nobly,  I  mean,  nor  renegade  to  art. 
The  Grecian  gluts  me  with  its  perfect- 

ness, 
Unanswerable  as  Euclid,seIf-contained, 
The   one  thing   finished   in  this  hasty 

world, 
Forever  finished,  though  the  barbarous 

pit, 
Fanatical  on  hearsay,  stamp  and  shout 
As  if  a  miracle  could  be  encored. 
But  ah  !  this  other,  this  that  never  ends, 
Still  climbing,  luring  fancy  still  to  climb, 
As  full  of  morals  half-divined  as  life, 
Graceful,   grotesque,   with    ever    new 

surprise 
Of  hazardous  caprices  sure  to  please, 
Heavy  as  nightmare,  airy-light  as  fern, 
Imagination's  very  self  in  stone  ! 
With  one  long  sigh  of  infinite  release 
From  pedantries  past,   present,  or  to 

come, 
I  looked,  and  owned  myself  a  happy 

Goth. 
Your  blood   is  mine,  ye  architects   of 

dream, 
Builders  of  aspiration  incomplete, 
So  more  consummate,  souls  self-confi- 
dent, 
Who  felt  your  own  thought  worthy  of 

record 
In  monumental  pomp  !  NoGreciandrop 
Rebukes   these   veins    that   leap   with 

kindred  thrill, 
After  long  exile,  to  the  mother-tongue. 

Ovid  in  Pontus,  puling  for  his  Rome 
Of  men  invirile  and  disnatured  dames 
That    poison    sucked    from   the   Attic 
bloom  decayed, 


Shrank  with  a  shudder  from  the  blue- 
eyed  race 
Whose  force  rough-handed  should  re- 
new the  world, 
And  from  the  dregs  of  Romulus  express 
Such  wine  as  Dante  poured,  or  he  who 

blew 
Roland's  vain  blast,  or  sang  the  Cam- 

peador 
In  verse  that  clanks  like  armor  in  the 

charge,  — 
Homeric  juice,  if  brimmed  in  Odin's 

horn. 
And   they  could  build,  if  not  the  col- 
umned fane 
That  from  the  height  gleamed  seaward 

many-hued, 
Something    more    friendly  with    their 

ruder  skies  : 
The  gray  spire,  molten  now  in  driving 

mist, 
Now  lulled  with  the   incommunicable 

blue  ; 
The  carvings  touched  to  meanings  new 

with  snow, 
Or  commented  with  fleeting  grace  of 

shade  ; 
The  statues,  motley  as  man's  memory, 
Partial  as  that,  so  mixed  of  true  and 

false, 
History  and  legend  meeting  with  a  kiss 
Across   this   bound-mark  where   their 

realms  confine  ; 
The  painted  windows,  frecking  gloom 

with  glow, 
Dusking  the  sunshine  which  they  seem 

to  cheer, 
Meet  symbol  of  the  senses  and  the  soul  ; 
And   the   whole   pile,    grim   with   the 

Northman's  thought 
Of  life  and  death,  and  doom,  life's  equal 

fee,  — 
These  were  before   me  :  and  I  gazed 

abashed, 
Child  of  an  age  that  lectures,not  creates, 
Plastering  our  swallow  -  nests  on   the 

awful  Past, 
And  twittering  round  the  work  of  larger 

men, 
As  we  had  builded  what  we  but  deface. 
Far   up   the   great    bells   wallowed   in 

delight, 
Tossing  their  clangors  o'er  the  heedless 

town, 


446 


THE   CATHEDRAL. 


To  call   the   worshippers  who    never 

came, 
Or  women  mostly,  in  loath  twos  and 

threes. 
I  entered,  reverent  of  whatever  shrine 
Guards  piety  and  solace  for  my  kind 
Or  gives  the  soul  a  moment's  truce  of 

God, 
And  shared  decorous  in  the  ancient  rite 
My  sterner  fathers  held  idolatrous. 
The   service   over,    I   was  tranced    in 

thought : 
Solemn  the  deepening  vaults,  and  most 

to  me, 
Fresh  from  the  fragile  realm  of  deal  and 

paint, 
Or  brick  mock-pious  with  a  marble 

front  ; 
Solemn  the  lift  of  high-embowered  roof, 
The   clustered   stems    that   spread   in 

boughs  disleaved, 
Through  which  the  organ  blew  a  dream 

of  storm, — 
Though  not   more   potent  to  sublime 

with  awe 
And  shut  the  heart  up  in  tranquillity, 
Than  aisles  to  me  familiar  that  o'erarch 
The    conscious    silences    of   brooding 

woods, 
Centurial  shadows,  cloisters  of  the  elk  : 
Yet  here  was  sense  of  undefined  regret, 
Irreparable  loss,  uncertain  what : 
Was  all    this  grandeur   but   anachro- 
nism,— 
A  shell  divorced  of  its  informing  life, 
Where   the  priest   housed  him   like  a 

hermit-crab, 
An  alien  to  that  faith  of  elder  days 
That  gathered  round  it  this  fair  shape 

of  stone  ? 
Is  old  Religion  but  a  spectre  now, 
Haunting    the    solitude   of   darkened 

minds, 
Mocked  out  of  memory  by  the  sceptic 

day? 
Is  there   no  comer  safe  from  peeping 

Doubt, 
Since  Gutenberg  made  thought  cosmop- 
olite 
And   stretched   electric    threads    from 

mind  to  mind  ? 
Nay,  did  Faith  build  this  wonder?   or 

did  Fear, 
That  makes  a  fetish  and  misnames  it  God 


(Blockish  or  metaphysic,  matters  not), 
Contrive  this  coop  to  shut  its  tyrant  in. 
Appeased  with  playthings,  that  he  might 
not  harm  ? 

I   turned   and  saw  a  beldame  on  her 

knees ; 
With   eyes  astray,  she  told  mechanic 
beads 

Before  some  shrine  of  saintly  woman- 
hood, 

Bribed    intercessor    with    the    far-off 
Judge : 

Such  my  first  thought,  by  kindlier  soon 
rebuked, 

Pleading  for  whatsoever  touches  life 

With  upward  impulse  :  be  He  nowhere 
else, 

God  is  in  all  that  liberates  and  lifts, 

In  all  that  humbles,  sweetens,  and  con- 
soles : 

Blessed  the  naturesshored  on  every  side 

With  landmarks  of  hereditary  thought ! 

Thrice  happy  they  that  wander  not  life- 
long 

Beyond   near  succor  of  the  household 
faith, 

The  guarded  fold  that  shelters  not  con- 
fines ! 

Their   steps   find   patience  in  familiar 
paths, 

Printed  with  hope  by  loved  feet  gone 
before 

Of  parent,  child,  or  lover,  glorified 

By  simple  magic  of  dividing  Time. 

My  lids  were  moistened  as  the  woman 
knelt, 

And  — was  it  will,  or  some  vibration 
faint 

Of   sacred   Nature,   deepeT  than    the 
will?  — 

My  heart  occultly  felt  itself  in  hers, 

Through    mutual  intercession    gently 
leagued. 

Or  was  it  not  mere  sympathy  of  brain? 
A  sweetness  intellectually  conceived 
In  simpler  creeds  to  me  impossible  ? 
A  juggle  of  that  pity  for  ourselves 
In  others,  which  puts  on  such  pretty 

masks 
And  snares  self-love  with  bait  of  charity? 
Something  of  all  it  might  be,  or  of  none: 
Yet  for  a  moment  I  was  snatched  away 


THE   CATHEDRAL, 


447 


And   had   the  evidence  of  things  not 

seen  ; 
For  one  rapt  moment ;  then  it  all  came 

back, 
This  age  that  blots  out  life  with  ques- 
tion-marks, 
This  nineteenth  century  with  its  knife 

and  glass 
That  make  thought  physical,  and  thrust 

far  off 
The  Heaven,  so  neighborly  with  man 

of  old, 
To  voids  sparse-sown  with   alienated 

stars. 

*T  is  irrecoverable,  that  ancient  faith, 
Homely  and  wholesome,  suited  to  the 

time, 
With   rod  or  candy  for  child-minded 

men  : 
No  theologic  tube,  with  lens  on  lens 
Of   syllogism    transparent,    brings    it 

near,  — 
At  best  resolving  some  new  nebula, 
Or  blurring  some  fixed-star  of  hope  to 

mist. 
Science  was   Faith  once  ;    Faith  were 

Science  now, 
Would  she  but  lay  her  bow  and  arrows 

by 
And  arm  her  with  the  weapons  of  the 

time. 
Nothing  that  keeps  thought  out  is  safe 

from  thought. 
For  there 's    no   virgin-fort    but    self- 
respect, 
And  Truth  defensive  hath  lost  hold  on 

God. 
Shall  we  treat  Him  as  if  He  were  a 

child 
That  knew  not  His  own  purpose  ?  nor 

dare  trust 
The  Rock  of  Ages  to  their  chemic  tests, 
Lest  some  day  the  all-sustaining  base 

divine 
Should  fail  from  under  us,  dissolved  in 

gas? 
The  armed  eye  that  with  a  glance  dis- 
cerns 
In  a  dry  blood-speck  between  ox  and 

man, 
Stares  helpless  at  this  miracle  called  life, 
This  shaping  potency  behind  the  egg, 
This  circulation  swift  of  deity, 


Where  suns  and  systems  inconspicuous 

float 
As  the  poor  blood-disks  in  our  mortal 

veins. 
Each  age  must  worship  its  own  thought 

of  God, 
More  or  less  earthy,  clarifying  still 
With   subsidence    continuous    of   the 

dregs  ; 
Nor  saint  nor  sage  could  fix  immutably 
The  fluent  image  of  the  unstable  Best, 
Still  changing  in  their  very  hands  that 

wrought  : 
To-day's    eternal     truth     To-morrow 

proved 
Frail  as  frost-landscapes  on  a  window- 
pane. 
Meanwhile  Thou  smiledst,  inaccessible, 
At  Thought's  own  substance  made  a 

cage  for  Thought, 
And  Truth  locked  fast  with  her  own 

master-key  ; 
Nor  didst  Thou  reck  what  image  man 

might  make 
Of  his  own    shadow    on   the  flowing 

world ; 
The  climbing  instinct  was  enough  for 

Thee. 
Or  wast   Thou,  then,   an  ebbing  tide 

that  left 
Strewn  with  dead  miracle  those  eldest 

shores,  i 

For  men  to  dry,  and  dryly  lecture  on, 
Thyself  thenceforth  incapable  of  flood? 
Idle  who   hopes  with   prophets  to  be 

snatched 
By  virtue  in  their  mantles  left  below ; 
Shall  the  soul  live  on  other  men's  re- 
port, 
Herself  a  pleasing  fable  of  herself? 
Man  cannot  be  God'soutlaw  ifhe  would, 
Nor  so  abscond  him  in  the  caves  of 

sense 
But  Nature  still  shall  search  some  crev- 
ice out 
With  messages  of  splendor  from   that 

Source 
Which,  dive  he,  soar  he,  baffles  still  and 

lures. 
This  life  were  brutish  did  we  not  some- 
times 
Have  intimation  clear  of  wider  scope, 
Hints  of  occasion  infinite,  to  keep 
The  soul  alert  with  noble  discontent 


448 


THE   CATHEDRAL. 


And    onward    yearnings    of   unstilled 

desire  ; 
Fruitless,   except   we    now  and    then 

divined 
A     mystery     of    Purpose,     gleaming 

through 
The  secular  confusions  of  the  world. 
Whose    will    we     darkly    accomplish, 

doing  ours. 
No  man    can    think    nor   in    himself 

perceive, 
Sometimes   at  waking,   in    the   street 

sometimes, 
Or  on  the  hillside,  always  unforewarned, 
A  grace  of  being,  finer  than  himself, 
That  beckonsand  is  gone,  — a  larger  life 
Upon   his  own  impinging,  with   swift 

glimpse 
Of  spacious  circles  luminous  with  mind, 
To  which  the  ethereal  substance  of  his 

own 
Seems  but  gross  cloud  to  make   that 

visible, 
Touched  to  a  sudden  glory  round  the 

edge. 
Who  that  hath  known  these  visitations 

fleet 
Would  strive  to  make  them  trite  and 

ritual  ? 
I,  that  still  pray  at  morning  and  at  eve, 
Loving  those   roots  that  feed  us  from 

the  past, 
And  pnzing  more  than  Plato  things  I 

learned 
At  that  best  academe,  a  mother's  knee, 
Thrice   in   my  life   perhaps  have  truly 

prayed, 
Thrice,  stirred  below  my  conscious  self, 

have  felt 
That  perfect  disenthralment   which  is 

God; 
Nor    know    I    which    to    hold    worst 

enemy,  — 
Him  who  on  speculation's  windy  waste 
Would  turn  me  loose,  stript  of  the  rai- 
ment warm 
By  Faith  contrived  against  our  naked- 
ness, 
Or  him   who,   cruel-kind,    would   fain 

obscure, 
With  painted  saints  and  paraphrase  of 

God, 
The  soul's  east-window  of  divine  sur- 
prise. 


Where  others  worship  I  but  look  an1* 

long; 
For,  though  not  recreant  to  my  fathers' 

faith, 
Its  forms  to  me  are  weariness,  and  most 
That    drony    vacuum    of   compulsory 

prayer, 
Still  pumping  phrases  for  the  Ineffable, 
Though  all  the  valves  of  memory  gasp 

and  wheeze. 
Words    that  have  drawn  transcendent 

meanings  up 
From   the   best  passion  of  all  bygone 

time, 
Steeped  through  with  tears  of  triumph 

and  remorse, 
Sweet  with  all  sainthood,  cleansed  in 

martyr-fires, 
Can  they,  so  consecrate  and  so  inspired, 
By  repetition  wane  to  vexing  wind? 
Alas  !  we  cannot  draw  habitual  breath 
In  the  thin  air  of  life's  supremer  heights, 
We  cannot  make   each  meal  a  sacra- 
ment, 
Nor    with    our    tailors    be    disbodied 

souls,  — 
We    men,    too    conscious    of    earth's 

comedy, 
Who  see   two   sides,  with    our  posed 

selves  debate, 
And  only  for  great  stakes  can  be  sub- 
lime ! 
Let  us  be  thankful  when,  as  I  do  here, 
We  can  read  Bethel  on  a  pile  of  stones, 
And,  seeing  where  God  has  been,  trust 

in  Him. 

Brave  Peter  Fischer  there  in  Nurem- 
berg, 

Moulding  Saint  Sebald's  miracles  in 
bronze, 

Put  saint  and  stander-by  in  that  quaint 

.  £arb 
Familiar  to  him  in  his  daily  walk, 

Not     doubting     God    could    grant    a 

miracle 
Then   and   in    Nuremberg,   if  so    He 

would  ; 
But  never  artist  for  three  hundred  years 
Hath  dared  the  contradiction  ludicrous 
Of  supernatural  in  modern  clothes. 
Perhaps  the  deeper  faith  that  is  to  come 
Will  see  God  rather  in  the  strenuous 

doubt, 


THE   CATHEDRAL. 


449 


Than  in  the  creed  held  as  an  infant's 

hand 
Holds    purposeless  whatso    is  placed 

therein. 

Say  it  is  drift,  not  progress,  none  the 
less, 

With  the   old   sextant   of  the   fathers' 
creed, 

We  shape   our  courses  by    new-risen 
stars, 

And,  still  lip-loyal  to  what  once  was 
truth, 

Smuggle  new  meanings  under  ancient 
names, 

Unconscious    perverts  of   the    Jesuit, 
Time. 

Change  is  the  mask  that  all  Continu- 
ance wears 

To    keep    us    youngsters    harmlessly 
amused  ; 

Meanwhile  some  ailing  or  more  watch- 
ful child, 

Sitting  apart,  sees  the  old  eyes  gleam 
out, 

Stern,  and  yet  soft  with  humorous  pity 
too. 

Whilere,  men  burnt  men  for  a  doubtful 
point, 

As  if  the  mind  were  quenchable  with 
fire, 

And  Faith  danced  round  them  with  her 
war-paint  on, 

Devoutly  savage  as  an  Iroquois  ; 

Now  Calvin  and  Servetus  at  one  board 

Snuff  in  grave  sympathy  a  milder  roast, 

And  o'er  their  claret  settle  Comte  un- 
read. ». 

Fagot  and  stake  were  desperately  sin- 
cere : 

Our    cooler  martyrdoms   are   done   in 
types ; 

And  flames  that  shine  in  controversial 
eyes 

Burn  out  no  brains  but  his  who  kindles 
them. 

This  is  no  age  to  get  cathedrals  built : 

Did  God,  then,  wait  for  one  in  Beth- 
lehem? 

Worst  is  not  yet :  lo,  where  his  coming 
looms, 

Of   Earth's    anarchic    children    latest 
born, 

Democracy,  a  Titan  who  hath  learned 


To  laugh  at  Jove's  old-fashioned  thun- 
derbolts, — 
Could  he   not   also  forge  them,  if  he 

would  ? 
He,  better  skilled,  with  solvents  merci- 
less, 
Loosened   in   air  and  borne  on  every 

wind, 
Saps  unperceived  :  the  calm  Olympian 

height 
Of  ancient  order  feels  its  bases  yield, 
And  pale  gods  glance  for  help  to  gods 

as  pale. 
What  will  be  left  of  good  or  worshipful, 
Of  spiritual  secrets,  mysteries, 
Of  fair  religion's  guarded  heritage, 
Heirlooms   of  soul,   passed  downward 

unprofaned 
From  eldest  I  nd?     This  Western  giant 

coarse, 
Scorning   refinements   which   he  lacks 

himself, 
Loves   not    nor   heeds    the    ancestral 

hierarchies, 
Each    rank    dependent    on    the   next 

above 
In  orderly  gradation  fixed  as  fate. 
King  by  mere  manhood,  nor  allowing 

aught 
Of  holier  unction  than  the  sweat  of  toil : 
In  his  own  strength  sufficient ;  called 

to  solve, 
On  the  rough  edges  of  society, 
Problems  long  sacred   to  the  choicer 

few, 
And  improvise  what    elsewhere   men 

receive 
As   gifts    of   deity ;     tough   foundling 

reared 
Where  every  man  's  his  own  Melchise- 

dek, 
How  make  him  reverent  of  a  King  of 

kings  ? 
Or  Judge  self-made,  executor  of  laws 
By  him   not  first  discussed  and  voted 

on? 
For  him  no  tree  of  knowledge  is  forbid, 
Or  sweeter  if  forbid.     How  save  the  ark, 
Or  holy  of  holies,  unprofaned  a  day 
From  his  unscrupulous  curiosity 
That  handles  everything  as  if  to  buy, 
Tossing  aside  what  fabrics  delicate 
Suit  not  the  rough-and-tumble  of  his 
ways? 


45° 


THE   CATHEDRAL. 


What  hope  for  those  fine-nerved  hu- 
manities 

That  made  earth  gracious  once  with 
gentler  arts, 

Now  the  rude  hands  have  caught  the 
trick  of  thought 

And  claim  an  equal  suffrage  with  the 
brain? 

The  born  disciple  of  an  elder  time, 
(To  me  sufficient,  friendlier  than   the 

new,) 
Who  in  my  blood  feel  motions  of  the 

Past, 
I   thank  benignant    nature    most    for 

this, — 
A  force  of  sympathy,  or  call  it  lack 
Of  character  firm-planted,  loosing  me 
From  the  pent  chamber  of  habitual  self 
To  dwell   enlarged  in  alien  modes  of 

thought, 
Haply  distasteful,  wholesomer  for  that, 
And  through  imagination  to  possess, 
As  they  were  mine,  the  lives  of  other 

men. 
This  growth  original  of  virgin  soil, 
By  fascination  felt  in  opposites, 
Pleases  and  shocks,  entices  and  per- 
turbs. 
In  this  brown-fisted  rough,  this  shirt- 
sleeved  Cid, 
This  backwoods  Charlemagne  of  em- 
pires new, 
Whose   blundering   heel    instinctively 

finds  out 
The  goutier  foot  of  speechless  dignities, 
Who,  meeting  Cssar's  self,  would  slap 

his  back, 
Call  him  "  Old  Horse,"  and  challenge 

to  a  drink, 
My  lungs  draw  braver  air,  my  breast 

dilates 
With  ampler    manhood,    and   I   front 

both  worlds, 
Of  sense  and  spirit,  as  my  natural  fiefs, 
To  shape  and  then  reshape  them  as  I 

will. 
ft  was  the   first   man's  charter ;  why 

not  mine? 
How  forfeit?    when  deposed   in  other 
hands? 

Thou  shudder'st,  Ovid  ?    Dost  in  him 
forebode 


A  new  avatar  of  the  large-limbed  Goth, 
To  break,  or  seem  to  break,  tradition's 
clew, 

And  chase  to  dreamland  back  thy  gods 
dethroned? 

I  think  man's  soul  dwells  nearer  to  the 
east, 

Nearer  to  morning's  fountains  than  the 
sun  ; 

Herself  the  source  whence  all  tradition 
sprang, 

Herself    at   once  both  labyrinth  and 
clew. 

The  miracle  fades  out  of  history, 

But  faith  and  wonder  and  the  primal 
earth 

Are  born  into  the  world  with  every 
child. 

Shall  this  self-maker  with  the  prying 
eyes, 

This  creature  disenchanted  of  respect 

By  the  New  World's  new  fiend,  Pub- 
licity, 

Whose   testing   thumb   leaves    every- 
where its  smutch, 

Not  one  day  feel  within   himself  the 
need 

Of  loyalty  to  better  than  himself, 

That  shall  ennoble  him  with  the  up- 
ward look  ? 

Shall  he  not  catch  the  Voice  that  wan- 
ders earth, 

With  spiritual  summons,  dreamed  or 
heard, 

As  sometimes,  just  ere  sleep  seals  up 
the  sense, 

We  hear  our  Mother  call  from  deeps  of 
time, 

And,   waking,   find  it    vision,  —  none 
the  less 

The  benediction  bides,  old  skies  return, 

And  that  unreal  thing,  preeminent, 

Makes  air  and  dream  of  all  we  see  and 
feel? 

Shall  he  divine  no  strength  unmade  of 
votes, 

Inward,   impregnable,  found   soon   as 
sought, 

Not   cognizable   of  sense,  o'er  sense 
supreme  ? 

His  holy  places  may  not  be  of  stone. 

Nor  made  with  hands,  yet   fairer   far 
than  aught 

By  artist  feigned  or  pious  araor  reared, 


THE   CATHEDRAL. 


45» 


Fit  altars  for  who  guards  inviolate 
God's  chosen  seat,  the  sacred  form  of 

man. 
Doubtless  his  church  will  be  no  hospital 
For  superannuate  forms  aud  mumping 

shams, 
No  parlor  where  men  issue  policies 
Of  life-assurance  on  the  Eternal  Mind, 
Nor  his  religion  but  an  ambulance 
To  fetch  life's  wounded  and  malinger- 
ers in, 
Scorned  by  the  strong ;  yet  he,  uncon- 
scious heir 
To  the  influence  sweet  of  Athens  and 

of  Rome, 
And  old  Judaea's  gift  of  secret  fire, 
Spite  of  himself  shall  surely  learn  to 

know 
And  worship  some  ideal  of  himself, 
Some     divine     thing,    large-hearted, 

brotherly, 
Not  nice  in  trifles,  a  soft  creditor, 
Pleased  with  his  world,  and  hating  only 

cant. 
And,  if  his  Church  be  doubtful,  it  is  sure 
That,   in  a  world,  made  for  whatever 

else, 
Not  made  for  mere  enjoyment,  —  in  a 

world 
Of  toil  but  half-requited,  or,  at  best, 
Paid     in     some    futile     currency    of 

breath, — 
A  world  of  incompleteness,  sorro\v  swift 
And  consolation  laggard,  whatsoe'er 
The  form  of  building  or  the  creed  pro- 
fessed. 
The  Cross,  bold  type  of  shame  to  hom- 
age turned, 
Of  an   unfinished   life  that  sways  the 

world, 
Shall  tower  as  sovereign  emblem  over 
all. 

The  kobold  Thought  moves  with  us 
when  we  shift 

Our  dwelling  to  escape  him  ;  perched 
aloft 

On  the  first  load  of  household-stuff  he 
went  ; 

For,  where  the  mind  goes,  goes  old  fur- 
niture. 

I,  who  to  Chartres  came  to  feed  my 
eye 

/Vi)d  give  to  Fancy  one  clear  holiday, 


Scarce  saw  the  minster  for  the  thoughts 

it  stirred 
Buzzing  o'er  past  and  future  with  vain 

quest. 
Here  once  there  stood  a  homely  wood- 
en church, 
Which   slow   devotion   nobly  changed 

for  this 
That  echoes  vaguely  to  my  modem 

steps. 
By  suffrage  universal  it  was  built, 
As  practised  then,  for  all  the  country 

came 
From  far  as  Rouen,  to  give  votes  for 

God, 
Each  vote  a  block  of  stone  securely  laid 
Obedient  to  the  master's  deep-mused 

plan. 
Will  what  our  ballots  rear,  responsible 
To  no  grave  forethought,  stand  so  long 

as  this, — 
Delight  like  this  the  eye  of  after  days 
Brightening  with  pride  that  here,    at 

least,  were  men 
Who  meant  and  did  the  noblest  thing 

they  knew? 
Can  our  religion  cope  with  deeds  like 

this  ? 
We,  too,  build  Gothic  contract-shams, 

because 
Our  deacons  have  discovered  that  it 

pays, 
And  pews   sell  better   under  vaulted 

roofs 
Of  plaster  painted  like  an  Indian  squaw. 
Shall  not  that  Western  Goth,  of  whom 

we  spoke, 
So  fiercely  practical,  so  keen  of  eye, 
Find  out,  some  day,  that  nothing  pays 

but  God, 
Served  whether    on    the    smoke-shut 

battle-field, 
In  work  obscure  done  honestly,  or  vote 
For  truth  unpopular,or  faith  maintained 
To  ruinous  convictions,  or  good  deeds 
Wrought  for  good'  s  s^ke,  mindless  of 

heaven  or  hell 
Shall  he  not  learn  that  all  prosperity, 
Whose  bases  stretch  not  deeper  than 

the  sense, 
Is  but  a  trick  of  this  world's  atmosphere, 
A  desert -born  mirage  of  spire  and  dome, 
Or  find  too  late,  the  Past's  long  lesson 

missed, 


452 


THE   CATHEDRAL. 


That  dust  the  prophets  shake  from  off 

tneir  feet 
Grows  heavy  to  drag  down  both  tower 

and  wall  ? 
I   know   not  ;    but,  sustained  by  sure 

belief 
That   man   still  rises    level  with    the 

height 
Of  noblest  opportunities,  or  makes 
Such,  if  the  time   supply  not,   I   can 

wait. 
I  gaze  round  on  the  windows,  pride  of 

France, 
Each  the  bright  gift  of  some  mechanic 

guild 
Who  loved  their  city  and  thought  gold 

well  spent 
To  make  her  beautiful  with  piety  : 
I  pause,  transfigured  by  some  stripe  of 

bloom, 
And    my   mind   throngs  with   shining 

auguries, 
Circle  on  circle,  bright  as  seraphim, 
With  golden  trumpets,silent,  that  await 
The  signal  to  blow  news  of  good  to 

men. 

Then  the  revulsion  came  that  always 
comes 

After  these  dizzy  elations  of  the  mind  : 

And  with  a  passionate  pang  of  doubt  I 
cried, 

"  O  mountain-born,  sweet  with  snow- 
filtered  air 

From  uncontaminate  wells  of  ether 
drawn 

And  never-broken  secrecies  of  sky, 

Freedom,  with  anguish  won,  misprized 
till  lost, 

They  keep  thee  not  who  from  thy  sacred 
eyes 

Catch  the  consuming  lust  of  sensual 
good 

And  the  brute's  license  of  unfettered 
will. 

Far  from  the  popular  shout  and  venal 
breath 

Of  Cleon  blowing  the  mob's  baser  mind 

To  bubbles  of  wind-piloted  conceit, 

Thou  shrinkest,  gathering  up  thy  skirts, 
to  hide 

In  fortresses  of  solitary  thought 

And  private  virtue  strong  in  self-re- 
straint. 


Must  we  too  forfeit  thee  misunderstood, 
Content  with  names,  nor  inly  wise  to 

know 
That  best  things  perish  of  their  own 

excess, 
And  quality  o'er-driven  becomes  defect? 
Nay,  is  it  thou  indeed  that  we  have> 

glimpsed. 
Or  rather  such  illusion  as  of  old 
Through  Athens  glided  menadlike  and 

Rome, 
A  shape  of  vapor,  mother  of  vain  dreams 
And  mutinous  traditions,  specious  plea 
Of  the  glaived  tyrant  and  long-memoried 

priest  ? " 

I    walked    forth    saddened ;      for    all 

thought  is  sad, 
And   leaves  a  bitterish  savor  in   the 

brain, — 
Tonic,  it  may  be,  not  delectable, — 
And  turned,   reluctant,    for   a   parting 

look 
At  those  old  weather-pitted  images 
Of   bygone   struggle,   now  so    sternly 

calm. 
About    their  shoulders   sparrows  had 

built  nests, 
And    fluttered,    chirping,    from    gray 

perch  to  perch, 
Now  on  a  mitre  poising,  now  a  crown, 
Irreverently  happy.     While  I  thought 
How  confident  they  were,  what  careless 

hearts 
Flew  on  those   lightsome   wings   and 

shared  the  sun, 
A  larger  shadow  crossed  ;  and,  looking 

UP. 

I  saw  where,  nesting  in  the  hoary 
towers, 

The  sparrow-hawk  slid  forth  on  noise- 
less air, 

With  sidelong  head  that  watched  the 
joy  below, 

Grim  Norman  baron  o'er  this  clan  of 
Kelts. 

Enduring  Nature,  force  conservative, 

Indifferent  to  our  noisy  whims!  Men 
prate 

Of  all  heads  to  an  equal  grade  cashiered 

On  level  with  the  dullest,  and  expect 

(Sick  of  no  worse  distemper  than  them- 
selves) 

A  wondrous  cure-all  in  equality  ; 


THE   CATHEDRAL. 


453 


They  ,-eason  that  To-morrow  must  be 
wise 

Because  To-day  was  not,  nor  Yester- 
day, 

As  if  good  days  were  shapen  of  them- 
selves. 

Not  of  the  very  lifeblood  of  men's 
souls  ; 

Meanwhile,  long-suffering,  imperturb- 
able, 

Thou  quietly  complet'st  thy  syllogism, 

And  from  the  premise  sparrow  here 
below 

Draw'st  sure  conclusion  of  the  hawk 
above, 

Pleased  with  the  soft-billed  songster, 
pleased  no  less 

With  the  fierce  beak  ofnatures  aquiline. 

Thou    beautiful   Old  Time,  now  hid 

away 
In  the  Past's  valley  of  Avilion, 
Haply,  like  Arthur,  till  thy  wound  be 

healed, 
Then  to  reclaim  the  sword  and  crown 

again  I 
Thrice  beautiful  to  us  ;  perchance  less 

fair 
To  who  possessed  thee,  as  a  mountain 

seems 
To  dwellers  round  its  bases  but  a  heap 
Of  barren  obstacle  that  lairs  the  storm 
And  the  avalanche's  silent  bolt  holds 

back 
Leashed    with    a    hair,  —  meanwhile 

some  far-off  clown, 
Hereditary  delver  of  the  plain, 
Sees  it  an  unmoved  vision  of  repose, 
Nest  of  the  morning,  and  conjectures 

there 
The  dance  of  streams  to  idle  shepherds' 

pipes, 
And  fairer  habitations  softly  hung 
On  breezy  slopes,  or  hid  in  valleys  cool, 
For  happier  men.      No  mortal   ever 

dreams 
That  the   scant  isthmus  he  encamps 

upon 
Between  two  oceans,  one,  the  Stormy, 

passed, 


And  one,  the  Peaceful,  yet  to  venture 

on, 
Has  been  that  future  whereto  prophets 

yearned 
For  the  fulfilment  of  Earth's  cheated 

hope. 
Shall    be    that    past  which  nerveless 

poets  moan 
As  the  lost  opportunity  of  song. 

0  Power,  more  near  my  life  than  life 

itself 
(Or  what  seems  life  to  us  in  sense 

immured), 
Even  as  the  roots,  shut  in  the  darksome 

earth, 
Share  in   the    tree-top's  joyance,  and 

conceive 
Of  sunshine  and  wide  air  and  winged 

things 
By  sympathy  of  nature,  so  do  I 
Have  evidence  of  Thee  so  far  above, 
Yet  in  and  of  me  !     Rather  Thou  the 

root 
Invisibly  sustaining,  hid  in  light, 
Not  darkness,  or  in  darkness  made  by 

us. 
If  sometimes  I  must  hear  good  men 

debate 
Of  other  witness  of  Thyself  than  Thou, 
As  if  there  needed  any  help  of  ours 
To  nurse  Thy  flickering  life,  that  else 

must  cease, 
Blown  out,  as  't  were  a  candle,  by  men's 

breath, 
My  soul  shall  not  be  taken  in  their  snare; 
To  change  her  inward  surety  for  their 

doubt 
Muffled  from  sight  in  formal  robes  of 

proof: 
While  she  can  only  feel  herself  through 

Thee, 

1  fear  not  Thy  withdrawal ;  more  I  fear. 
Seeing,  to  know  Thee  not,  hoodwinked 

with  dreams 
Of  signs  and  wonders,  while,  unnoticed. 

Thou, 
Walking  Thy  garden  still,  commun'st 

with  men, 
Missed  in  the  commonplace  of  miracle, 


THREE    MEMORIAL    POEMS. 


"Coscienza  fusca 
O  della  propria  o  dell'  altrui  vergogna 
Pur  sentira  la  tua  parola  brusca." 

If  I  let  fall  a  word  of  bitter  mirth 

When  public  shames  more  shameful  pardon  won, 

Some  have  misjudged  me,  and  my  service  done, 

If  small,  yet  faithful,  deemed  of  little  worth  : 

Through  veins  that  drew  their  life  from  Western  earth 

Two  hundred  years  and  more  my  blood  hath  run 

In  no  polluted  course  from  sire  to  son  ; 

And  thus  was  I  predestined  ere  my  birth 

To  love  the  soil  wherewith  my  fibres  own 

Instinctive  sympathies  ;  yet  love  it  so 

As  honor  would,  nor  lightly  to  dethrone 

Judgment,  the  stamp  of  manhood,  nor  forego 

The  son's  right  to  a  mother  dearer  grown 

With  growing  knowledge  and  more  chaste  than  snow. 


THREE   MEMORIAL   POEMS. 


TO 
E.  L.  GODKIN, 

IN  CORDIAL  ACKNOWLEDGMENT   OF    HIS   EMINENT   SERVICE 

IN    HEIGHTENING  AND   PURIFYING  THE  TONE 

OF   OUR   POLITICAL  THOUGHT, 

dfUs  Volume 

IS   DEDICATED. 


*#*  Readers,  it  is  hoped,  will  remember  that,  by  his  Ode  at  the  Harvard  Com- 
memoration, the  author  had  precluded  himself  from  many  of  the  natural  outlets 
of  thought  and  feeling  common  to  such  occasions  as  are  celebrated  in  this  little 
volume. 


ODE 

READ  AT  THE  ONE  HUNDREDTH  ANNI- 
VERSARY OF  THE  FIGHT  AT  CONCORD 
BRIDGE. 

I9TH  APRIL,   1875. 


Who  cometh  over  the  hills, 

Her  garments  with  morning  sweet, 

The  dance  of  a  thousand  rills 

Making  music  before  her  feet? 

Her  presence  freshens  the  air  ; 

Sunshine  steals  light  from  her  face  ; 

The  leaden  footstep  of  Care 

Leaps  to  the  tune  of  her  pace, 

Fairness  of  all  that  is  fair, 

Grace  at  the  heart  of  all  grace, 

Sweetener  of  hut  and  of  hall, 

Bringer  of  life  out  of  naught, 

Freedom,  O,  fairest  of  all 

The  daughters  of  Time  and  Thought  I 


She  cometh,  cometh  to-day : 
Hark  !  hear  ye  not  her  tread, 
Sending  a  thrill  through  your  clay, 
Under  the  sod  there,  ye  dead, 
Her  nurslings  and  champions? 
Do  ye  not  hear,  as  she  comes, 
The  bay  of  the  deep-mouthed  guns, 
The  gathering  buzz  of  the  drums? 
The  bells  that  called  ye  to  prayer, 
How  wildly  they  clamor  on  her, 
Crying,  "  She  cometh  !  prepare 
Her  to  praise  and  her  to  Honor, 
That  a  hundred  years  ago 
Scattered  here  in  blood  and  tears 
Potent  seeds  wherefrom  should  grow 
Gladness  for  a  hundred  years!  " 


Tell  me,  young  men,  have  ye  seen, 

Creature  of  diviner  mien 

For  true  hearts  to  long  and  cry  for, 


453 


THREE   MEMORIAL   POEMS. 


Manly  hearts  to  live  and  die  for? 
What  hath  she  that  others  want? 
Brows  that  all  endearments  haunt, 
Eyes  that  make  it  sweet  to  dare, 
Smiles  that  glad  untimely  death, 
Looks  that  fortify  despair, 
Tones     more     brave    than     trumpet's 

breath  ; 
Tell  me,  maidens,  have  ye  known 
Household  charm  more  sweetly  rare, 
Grace  of  woman  ampler  blown, 
Modesty  more  debonair, 
Younger  heart  with  wit  full  grown? 
O  for  an  hour  of  my  prime, 
The  pulse  of  my  hotter  years. 
That  I  might  praise  her  in  rhyme 
Would  tingle  your  eyelids  to  tears, 
Our  sweetness,  our  strength,  and  our 

star, 
Our  hope,  our  joy,  and  our  trust, 
Who  lifted  us  out  of  the  dust, 
And  made  us  whatever  we  are  1 


Whiter  than  moonshine  upon  snow 
Her  raiment  is,  but  round  the  hem 
Crimson  stained  ;  and,  as  to  and  fro 
Her  sandals  flash,  we  see  on  them, 
And  on  her  instep  veined  with  blue, 
Flecks  of  crimson,  on  those  fair  feet, 
High-arched,  Diana-like,  and  fleet, 
Fit  for  no  grosser  stain  than  dew  : 
O,  call  them  rather  chrisms  than  stains, 
Sacred  and  from  heroic  veins  ! 
For,  in  the  glory-guarded  pass, 
Her  haughty  and  far-shining  head 
She  bowed  to  shrive  Leonidas 
With  his  imperishable  dead  ; 
Her,  too,  Morgarten  saw, 
Where  the   Swiss  lion  fleshed  his  icy 

paw  ; 
She    followed    Cromwell's   quenchless 

star 
Where  the  grim  Puritan  tread 
Shook  Marston,  Naseby,  and  Dunbar  : 
Yea,  on  her  feet  are  dearer  dyes 
Yet  fresh,  nor  looked  on  with  untearful 

eyes. 


Our  fathers  found  her  in  the  woods 
Where  Nature  meditates  and  broods, 
The  seeds  of  unexampled  things 
Which  Time  to  consummation  brings 


Through  life  and  death  and  man's  un- 
stable moods ; 
They  met  her  here,  not  recognized, 
A  sylvan  huntress  clothed  in  furs, 
To  whose  chaste  wants  her  bow  sufficed, 
Nor  dreamed  what  destinies  were  hers : 
She  taught  them  bee-like  to  create 
Their  simpler  forms  of  Church    and 

State  : 
She  taught  them  to  endue 
The  past  with  other  functions  than  it 

knew, 
And  turn  in  channels  strange  the  uncer- 
tain stream  of  Fate  ; 
Better  than  all,  she  fenced  them  in  their 

need 
With  iron-handed  Duty's  sternest  creed, 
'Gainst  Self  s  lean  wolf  that  ravens  word 
and  deed. 

VI. 

Why  Cometh  she  hither  to-day 

To  this  low  village  of  the  plain 

Far  from  the  Present's  loud  highway, 

From  Trade's  cool  heart  and  seething 

brain  ? 
Why  cometh  she?    She  was  not  far 

away. 
Since  the  soul  touched  it,  not  in  vain, 
With  pathos  of  immortal  gain, 
'T  is  here  her  fondest  memories  stay. 
She  loves  yon  pine-bemurmured  ridge 
Where    now   our   broad-browed    poet 

sleeps, 
Dear  to  both  Englands ;  near  him  he 
Who  wore  the  ring  of  Canace  ; 
But  most  her  heart  to  rapture  leaps 
Where  stood  that  era-parting  bridge, 
O'er  which,  with  footfall  still  as  dew, 
The  Old  Time  passed  into  the  New; 
Where,  as  your  stealthy  river  creeps, 
He  whispers  to  his  listening  weeds 
Tales  of  sublimest  homespun  deeds. 
Here  English  law  and  English  thought 
'Gainst  the  self-will  of  England  fought ; 
And  here  were  men  (coequal  with  their 

fate), 
Who  did  great  things,  unconscious  they 

were  great. 
They  dreamed  not  what  a  die  was  cast 
With  that  first  answering  shot ;   what 

then? 
There  was  their  duty  ;  they  were  men 
Schooled   the  soul's  inward  gospel  to 

obey, 


ODE   READ  AT  CONCORD. 


4S9 


Though  leading  to  the  lion's  den. 

They  felt  the  habit-hallowed  world  give 
way 

Beneath  their  lives,  and  on  went  they, 

Unhappy  who  was  last. 

When  Buttrick  gave  the  word. 

That  awful  idol  of  the  unchallenged 
Past, 

Strong  in  their  love,  and  in  their  lineage 
strong, 

Fell  crashing  :  if  they  heard  it  not, 

Yet  the  earth  heard, 

Nor  ever  hath  forgot. 

As  on  from  startled  throne  to  throne, 

Where  Superstition  sate  or  conscious 
Wrong, 

A  shudder  ran  of  some  dread  birth  un- 
known. 

Thrice  venerable  spot  I 

River  more  fateful  than  the  Rubicon  ! 

O'er  those  red  planks,  to  snatch  her  dia- 
dem, 

Man's  Hope,  star-girdled,  sprang  with 
them, 

And  over  ways  untried  the  feet  of  Doom 
strode  on. 


Think  you  these  felt  no  charms 
In    their    gray    homesteads   and  em- 
bowered farms  ? 
In  household  faces  waiting  at  the  door 
Their  evening  step  should  lighten  up  no 

more  ? 
In  fields  their  boyish  feet  had  known  ? 
In  trees  their  fathers'  hands  had  set, 
And  which  with  them  had  grown, 
Widening  each  year  their  leafy  coronet? 
Felt  they  no  pang  of  passionate  regret 
For  those  unsolid  goods  that  seem  so 

much  our  own  ? 
These  things  are  dear  to  every  man  that 

lives, 
And  life  prized  more  for  what  it  lends 

than  gives. 
Yea,  many  a  tie,  by  iteration  sweet, 
Strove  to  detain  their  fatal  feet ; 
And  yet  the  enduring  half  they  chose, 
Whose  choice  decides  a  man  life's  slave 

or  king, 
The  invisible  things  of  God  before  the 

seen  and  known  : 
Therefore    their    memory    inspiration 

blows 


With  echoes  gathering  on  from  zone  to 

zone  : 
For  manhood  is  the  one  immortal  thing 
Beneath  Time's  changeful  sky, 
And,  where  it  lightened  once,  from  age 

to  age, 
Men  come  to  learn,  in  grateful  pilgrim- 
age, 
That  length  of  days  is  knowing  when  to 
die. 


What  marvellous  change  of  things  and 

men  ! 
She,  a  world-wandering  orphan  then, 
So  mighty  now  1    Those  are  her  streams 
That  whirl  the  myriad,  myriad  wheels 
Of  all  that  does,  and  all  that  dreams, 
Of  all  that  thinks,  and  all  that  feels, 
Through  spaces  stretched  from  sea  to 

sea ; 
By  idle  tongues  and  busy  brains, 
By  who  doth  right,  and  who  refrains, 
Hers  are  our  losses  and  our  gains  ; 
Our  maker  and  our  victim  she. 


Maiden  half  mortal,  half  divine, 

We  triumphed  in  thy  coming ;  to  the 
brinks 

Our  hearts  were  filled  with  pride's  tu- 
multuous wine  ; 

Better  to-day  who  rather  feels  than 
thinks. 

Yet  will  some  graver  thoughts  intrude, 

And  cares  of  sterner  mood  ; 

They  won  thee :  who  shall  keep  thee  ? 
From  the  deeps 

Where  discrowned  empires  o'er  their 
ruins  brood, 

And  many  a  thwarted  hope  wrings  its 
weak  hands  and  weeps, 

I  hear  the  voice  as  of  a  mighty  wind 

From  all  heaven's  caverns  rushing  un- 
coil fined, 

"  I,  Freedom,  dwell  with  Knowledge  : 
I  abide 

With  men  whom  dust  of  faction  cannot 
blind 

To  the  slow  tracings  of  the  Eternal 
Mind; 

With  men  by  culture  trained  and  for- 
tified, 

Who  bitter  duty  to  sweet  lusts  prefer, 


460 


THREE   MEMORIAL   POEMS. 


Fearless  to  counsel  and  obey. 

Conscience  my  sceptre  is,  and  law  my 
sword, 

Not  to  be  drawn  in  passion  or  in  play, 

But  terrible  to  punish  and  deter ; 

Implacable  as  God's  word, 

Like  it,  a  shepherd's  crook  to  them  that 
blindly  err. 

Vour  firm-pulsed  sires,  my  martyrs  and 
my  saints, 

Shoots  of  that  only  race  whose  patient 
sense 

Hath  known  to  mingle  flux  with  per- 
manence, 

Rated  my  chaste  denials  and  restraints 

Above  the  moment's  dear-paid  para- 
dise : 

Beware  lest,  shifting  with  Time's  grad- 
ual creep, 

The  light  that  guided  shine  into  your 
eyes. 

The  envious  Powers  of  ill  nor  wink  nor 
sleep : 

Be  therefore  timely  wise, 

Nor  laugh  when  this  one  steals,  and  that 
one  lies, 

As  if  your  luck  could  cheat  those  sleep- 
less spies, 

Till  the  deaf"  Fury  comes  your  house  to 
sweep ! " 

I  hear  the  voice,  and  unaffrighted  bow ; 

Ye  shall  not  be  prophetic  now, 

Heralds  of  ill,  that  darkening  fly 

Between  my  vision  and  the  rainbowed 
sky, 

Or  on  the  left  your  hoarse  forebodings 
croak 

From  many  a  blasted  bough 

On  Yggdrasil's  storm-sinewed  oak, 

That  once  was  green,  Hope  of  the  West, 
as  thou : 

Yet  pardon  if  I  tremble  while  I  boast ; 

For  I  have  loved  as  those  who  pardon 
most. 

x. 

Away,  ungrateful  doubt,  away  ! 
At  least  she  is  our  own  to-day. 
Break  into  rapture,  my  song, 
Verses,  leap  forth  in  the  sun, 
Bearing  the  joyance  along 
Like  a  train  of  fire  as  ye  run  ! 
Pause  not  for  choosing  of  words, 
Let  them  but  blossom  and  sing 
Blithe  as  the  orchards  and  birds 


With  the  new  coming  of  spring  I 

Dance  in  your  jollity,  bells ; 

Shout,  cannon  ;  cease  not,  ye  drums  ; 

Answer,  ye  hillside  and  dells  ; 

Bow,  all  ye  people  !     She  comes, 

Radiant,  calm-fronted,  as  when 

She  hallowed  that  April  day. 

Stay  with  us  !     Yes,  thou  shalt  stay, 

Softener  and  strengthener  of  men, 

Freedom,  not  won  by  the  vain, 

Not  to  be  courted  in  play, 

Not  to  be  kept  without  pain. 

Stay  with  us  !     Yes,  thou  wilt  stay, 

Handmaid  and  mistress  of  all, 

Kindler  of  deed  and  of  thought, 

Thou  that  to  hut  and  to  hall 

Equal  deliverance  brought  1 

Souls  of  her  martyrs,  draw  near, 

Touch  our  dull  lips  with  your  fire, 

That  we  may  praise  without  fear 

Her  our  delight,  our  desire, 

Our  faith's  inextinguishable  star, 

Our  hope,  our  remembrance,  our  trust, 

Our  present,  our  past,  our  to  be, 

Who  will  mingle  her  life  with  our  dust 

And  makes  us  deserve  to  be  free  1 


UNDER  THE  OLD  ELM. 

POEM  READ  AT  CAMBRIDGE  ON  THE 
HUNDREDTH  ANNIVERSARY  OF  WASH- 
INGTON'S TAKING  COMMAND  OF  THE 
AMERICAN  ARMY,  3D  JULY,  1775. 


Words  pass  as  wind,  but  where  great 

deeds  were  done 
A  power  abides  transfused  from  sire  to 

son  : 
The  boy  feels  deeper  meanings  thrill  his 

ear, 
That  tingling  through  his  pulse  life-long 

shall  run, 
With   sure   impulsion    to   keep   honor 

clear, 
When,  pointing  down,  his  father  whis- 
pers, "  Here, 
Here,  where  we   stand,  stood  he,  the 

purely  Great, 
Whose  soul  no  siren  passion  could  un- 

sphere, 


UNDER   THE   OLD  ELM. 


461 


Then  nameless,  now  a  power  and  mixed 

with  fate" 
Historic  town,  thou  holdest  sacred  dust, 
Once  known  to  men  as  pious,  learned, 

just, 
And   one  memorial  pile  that  dares  to 

last ; 
But  Memory  greets  with  reverential  kiss 
No  spot  in  all  thy  circuit  sweet  as  this, 
Touched  by  that  modest  glory  as  it  past, 
O'er  which  yon  elm  hath  piously  dis- 
played 
These  hundred  years  its  monumental 
shade. 

2. 

Of  our  swift  passage  through  this  scen- 
ery 

Of  life  and  death,  more  durable  than  we, 

What  landmark  so  congenial  as  a  tree 

Repeating  its  green  legend  every  spring, 

And,  with  a  yearly  ring, 

Recording  the  fair  seasons  as  they  flee, 

Type  of  our  brief  but  still-renewed 
mortality? 

We  fall  as  leaves  :  the  immortal  trunk 
remains, 

Builded  with  costly  juice  of  hearts  and 
brains 

Gone  to  the  mould  now,  whither  all  that 
be 

Vanish  returnless,  yet  are  procreant 
still 

In  human  lives  to  come  of  good  or  ill, 

And  feed  unseen  the  roots  of  Destiny. 


II. 


Men's  monuments,  grown  old,  forget 

their  names 
They  should  eternize,  but  the  place 
Where  shining  souls  have  passed  im- 
bibes a  grace 
Beyond  mere  earth  ;  some  sweetness  of 

their  fames 
Leaves  in  the  soil   its  unextinguished 

trace, 
Pungent,  pathetic,  sad  with  nobler  aims, 
That  penetrates  our  lives  and  heightens 

them  or  shames. 
This  insubstantial  world  and  fleet 
Seems  solid  for  a  moment   when  we 
stand 


On  dust  ennobled  by  heroic  feet 
Once   mighty   to   sustain    a    tottering 

land, 
And  mighty  still  such  burthen  to  up- 
bear, 
Nor  doomed  to  tread  the  path  of  things 

that  merely  were  : 
Our  sense,  refined  with  virtue  of  the 

spot, 
Across   the   mists   of  Lethe's   sleepy 

stream 
Recalls  him,  the  sole  chief  without  a 

blot, 
No  more  a  pallid  image  and  a  dream, 
But  as  he  dwelt  with  men  decorously 

supreme. 

2. 

Our  grosser  minds  need  this  terrestrial 

hint 
To  raise  long-buried  days  from  tombs 

of  print  : 
"  Here  stood  he,"  softly  we  repeat, 
And  lo,  the  statue  shrined  and  still 
In  that  gray  minster-front  we  call  the 

Past, 
Feels  in   its  frozen   veins  our  pulses 

thrill, 
Breathes    living    air    and    mocks    at 

Death's  deceit. 
It  warms,  it  stirs,  comes  down  to  us  at 

last, 
Its  features  human  with  familiar  light, 
A  man,  beyond  the  historian's  art  to 

kill, 
Or  sculptor's   to   efface  with   patient 

chisel-blight. 


Sure  the  dumb  earth  hath  memory,  nor 
for  naught 

Was  Fancy  given,  on  whose  enchanted 
loom 

Present  and  Past  commingle,  fruit  and 
bloom 

Of  one  fair  bough,  inseparably  wrought 

Into  the  seamless  tapestry  of  thought. 

So  charmed,  with  undeluded  eye  we  see 

In  history's  fragmentary  tale 

Bright  clews  of  continuity, 

Learn  that  high  natures  over  Time  pre- 
vail, 

And  feel  ourselves  a  link  in  that  entail 

That  binds  all  ages  past  with  all  that 
are  to  be. 


462 


THREE  MEMORIAL   POEMS. 


III. 


Beneath  our  consecrated  elm 

A  century  ago  he  stood. 

Famed  vaguely  for  that  old  fight  in  the 
wood 

Whose  red  surge  sought,  but  could  not 
overwhelm 

The  life  foredoomed  to  wield  our  rough- 
hewn  helm  :  — 

From  colleges,  where  now  the  gown 

To  arms  had  yielded,  from  the  town, 

Our  rude  self-summoned  levies  flocked 
to  see 

The  new-come  chiefs  and  wonder 
which  was  he. 

No  need  to  question  long  ;  close-lipped 
and  tall, 

Long  trained  in  murder-brooding  for- 
ests lone 

To  bridle  others'  clamors  and  his  own, 

Firmly  erect,  he  towered  above  them 
all, 

The  incarnate  discipline  that  was  to 
free 

With  iron  curb  that  armed  democracy. 

2. 

A  motley  rout  was  that  which  came  to 

stare, 
In  raiment  tanned  by  years  of  sun  and 

storm, 
Of  every  shape  th2t  was  not  uniform, 
Dotted    with    regimentals    here    and 

there  : 
An  army  all  of  captains,  used  to  pray 
And  stiff  in   fight,  but   serious   drill's 

despair, 
Skilled    to    debate    their    orders,    not 

obey  ; 
Deacons  were  there,   selectmen,   men 

of  note 
In  half-tamed  hamlets  ambushed  round 

with  woods, 
Ready  to  settle  Freewill  by  a  vote, 
But  largely  liberal  to  its  private  moods  ; 
Prompt  to  assert  by  manners,  voice,  or 

pen, 
Or  ruder  arms,  their  rights  as  English- 
men, 
Nor  much   fastidious  as  to  how  and 

when : 


Yet  seasoned  stuff  and  fittest  to  create 
A   thought- staid    army  or    a    lasting 

state  : 
Haughty  they  said  he  was,  at   first : 

severe ; 
But  owned,  as  all  men  own,  the  steady 

hand 
Upon  the  bridle,  patient  to  command, 
Prized,  as  all  prize,  the  justice  pure 

from  fear, 
And  learned  to  honor  first,  then  love 

him,  then  revere. 
Such  power  there  is  in  clear-eyed  self- 
restraint 
And  purpose  clean  as  light  from  every 

selfish  taint. 


Musing  beneath  the  legendary  tree, 

The  years  between  furl  off:  I  seem  to 
see 

The  sun-flecks,  shaken  the  stirred  foli- 
age through, 

Dapple  with  gold  his  sober  buff  and 
blue 

And  weave  prophetic  aureoles  round 
the  head 

That  shines  our  beacon  now  nor  dark- 
ens with  the  dead. 

O,  man  of  silent  mood, 

A  stranger  among  strangers  then, 

How  art  thou  since  renowned  the  Great, 
the  Good, 

Familiar  as  the  day  in  all  the  homes  of 
men  ! 

The  winged  years,  that  winnow  praise 
and  blame, 

Blow  many  names  out :  they  but  fan 
to  flame 

The  self-renewing  splendors  of  thy 
fame. 

IV. 


How  many  subtlest  influences  unite, 
With  spiritual  touch  of  joy  or  pain, 
Invisible  as  air  and  soft  as  light, 
To  body  forth  that  image  of  the  brain 
We  call  our  Country,  visionary  shape. 
Loved  more  than  woman,  fuller  of  fire 

than  wine, 
Whose  charm  can  none  define. 
Nor  any,  though  he  flee  it,  can  escape  ! 


UNDER    THE  OLD  ELM. 


463 


All  party-colored   threads  the  weaver 

Time 
Sets  in  his  web,  now  trivial,  now  sub- 
lime, 
All  memories,    all   forebodings,  hopes 

and  fears, 
Mountain  and  river,  forest,  prairie,  sea, 
A  hill,  a  rock,  a  homestead,  field,  or 

tree, 
The  casual   gleanings   of  unreckoned 

years, 
Take  goddess-shape  at  last  and  there  is 

She, 
Old  at  our  birth,  new  as  the   springing 

hours, 
Shrine  of  our  weakness,  fortress  of  our 

powers, 
Consoler,    kindler,    peerless    mid    her 

peers, 
A  force  that  'neath  our  conscious  being 

stirs, 
A  life  to  give  ours  permanence,  when 

we 
Are  borne  to  mingle  our  poor  earth  with 

hers, 
And  all  this  glowing  world  goes  with 

us  on  our  biers. 


Nations  are  long  results,  by  ruder  ways 
Gathering    the    might    that    warrants 

length  of  days  ; 
They  may  be  pieced  of  half-reluctant 

shares 
Welded  by  hammer-strokes  of  broad- 
brained  kings, 
Or  from  a  doughty  people  grow,  the 

heirs 
Of  wise   traditions  widening   cautious 

rings  ; 
At  best  they  are  computable  things, 
A  strength  behind  us  making  us  feel 

bold 
In  right,  or,  as  may  chance,  in  wrong ; 
Whose  force  by  figures  may  be  summed 

and  told, 
So  many  soldiers,   ships,  and   dollars 

strong, 
And  we  but  drops  that  bear  compulsory 

part 
In  the  dumb  throb  of  a  mechanic  heart  ; 
But  Country  is  a  shape  of  each  man's 

mind 


Sacred  from  definition,  unconfined 
By    the    cramped   walls    where    daily 

drudgeries  grind  ; 
An  inward  vision,  yet  an  outward  birth 
Of  sweet  familiar  heaven  and  earth  ; 
A  brooding  Presence  that  stirs  motions 

blind 
Of  wings  within  our  embryo   being's 

shell 
That  wait  but  her  completer  spell 
To  make  us  eagle-natured,  fit  to  dare 
Life's  nobler  spaces  and  untarnished 

air. 

3- 

You,  who  hold  dear  this  self-conceived 
ideal, 

Whose  faith  and  works  alone  can  make 
it  real, 

Bring  all  your  fairest  gifts  to  deck  her 
shrine 

Who  lifts  our  lives  away  from  Thine 
and  Mine 

And  feeds  the  lamp  of  manhood  more 
divine 

With  fragrant  oils  of  quenchless  con- 
stancy. 

When  all  have  done  their  utmost,  surely 
he 

Hath  given  the  best  who  gives  a  char- 
acter 

Erect  and  constant,  which  nor  any  shock 

Of  loosened  elements,  nor  the  forceful 
sea 

Of  flowing  or  of  ebbing  fates,  can  stir 

From  its  deep  bases  in  the  living  rock 

Of  ancient  manhood's  sweet  security: 

And  this  he  gave,  serenely  far  from 
pride 

As  baseness,  boon  with  prosperous 
stars  allied, 

Part  of  what  nobler  seed  shall  in  our 
loins  abide. 


No  bond  of  men  as  common  pride  so 
strong, 

In  names  time-filtered  for  the  lips  of 
song, 

Still  operant,  with  the  primal  Forces 
bound 

Whose  currents,  on  their  spiritual 
round, 

Transfuse  our  mortal  will  nor  are  gain- 
said : 


4&4 


THREE  MEMORIAL  POEMS. 


These  are  their  arsenals,  these  the  ex- 
haustless  mines 

That  give  a  constant  heart  in  great 
designs ; 

These  are  the  stuff  whereof  such 
dreams  are  made 

As  make  heroic  men  :  thus  surely  he 

Still  holds  in  place  the  massy  blocks  he 
laid 

'Neath  our  new  frame,  enforcing  so- 
berly 

The  self-control  that  makes  and  keeps 
a  people  free. 


O,  for  a  drop  of  that  Cornelian  ink 

Which  gave  Agricola  dateless  length 
of  days, 

To  celebrate  him  fitly,  neither  swerve 

To  phrase  unkempt,  nor  pass  discre- 
tion's brink, 

With  him  so  statue-like  in  sad  reserve, 

So  diffident  to  claim,  so  forward  to  de- 
serve ! 

Nor  need  I  shun  due  influence  of  his 
fame 

Who,  mortal  among  mortals,  seemed 
as  now 

The  equestrian  shape  with  unimpas- 
sioned  brow, 

That  paces  silent  on  through  vistas  of 
acclaim. 

2. 

What  figure  more  immovably  august 
Than  that  grave  strength  so  patient 

and  so  pure, 
Calm  in  good  fortune,  when  it  wavered, 

sure, 
That  mind  serene,  impenetrably  just, 
Modelled   on   classic  lines   so    simple 

they  endure  ? 
That  soul    so    softly  radiant    and   so 

white 
The  track  it  left  seems  less  of  fire  than 

light, 
Cold  but  to  such  as  love  distempera- 

ture  ? 
And  if  pure  light,  as  some  deem,  be 

the  force 
That  drives  rejoicing  planets  on  their 

course, 


Why  for  his  power  benign  seek  an  im- 

purer  source  ? 
His  was  the  true  enthusiasm  that  burns 

long, 
Domestically  bright, 
Fed  from  itself  and  shy  of  human  sight, 
The  hidden  force  that  makes  a  lifetime 

strong, 
And  not  the  short-lived  fuel  of  a  song. 
Passionless,  say  you  ?    What  is  pa,ssion 

for 
But  to  sublime  our  natures  and  control 
To  front  heroic  toils  with  late  return, 
Or  none,  or  such  as  shames  the  con- 
queror? 
That  fire  was  fed  with  substance  of  the 

soul 
And    not    with   holiday   stubble,  that 

could  burn, 
Unpraised  of  men  who  after  bonfires 

run, 
Through  seven  slow  years  of  unadvan- 

cing  war, 
Equal  when  fields  were  lost  or  fields 

were  won, 
With  breath   of  popular  applause  or 

blame, 
Nor  fanned   nor  damped,   unquench- 

ably  the  same, 
Too  inward  to  be  reached  by  flaws  of 

idle  fame. 


Soldier  and  statesman,  rarest  unison  ; 
High-poised  example  of  great  duties 

done 
Simply  as  breathing,  a  world's  honors 

worn 
As  life's  indifferent  gifts  to  all  men 

born  ; 
Dumb  for  himself,  unless  it  were  to 

God, 
But  for  his  barefoot  soldiers  eloquent, 
Tramping  the  snow  to  coral  where  they 

trod, 
Held  by  his  awe  in  hollow-eyed  con- 
tent ; 
Modest,  yet  firm  as  Nature's  self;  un- 

blamed 
Save  by  the  men   his  nobler  temper 

shamed  ; 
Never  seduced  through  show  of  present 

good 
By  other  than  unsetting  lights  to  steer 


UNDER    THE  OLD  ELM. 


465 


New-trimmed  in  Heaven,  nor  than  his 

steadfast  mood 
More  steadfast,  far  from  rashness  as 

from  fear ; 
Rigid,  but  with  himself  first,  grasping 

still 
In    swerveless    poise    the    wave-beat 

helm  of  will ; 
Not  honored  then  or  now  because  he 

wooed 
The  popular  voice,  but  that  he   still 

withstood ; 
Broad-minded,  higher-souled,  there  is 

but  one 
Who  was  all  this  and   ours,     and  all 

men's  —  Washington. 


Minds  strong  by  fits,  irregularly  great, 
That  flash  and  darken  like  revolving 

lights, 
Catch  more  the  vulgar  eye  unschooled 

to  wait 
On  the  long  curve  of  patient  days  and 

nights 
Rounding  a  whole  life  to  the  circle  fair 
Of  orbed  fulfilment ;  and  this  balanced 

soul, 
So  simple  in  its  grandeur,  coldly  bare 
Of  draperies  theatric,  standing  there 
In  perfect  symmetry  of  self-control, 
Seems  not  so  great  at  first,  but  greater 

grows 
Still   as  we  look,  and  by  experience 

learn 
How  grand  this  quiet   is,   how  nobly 

stern 
The   discipline  that  wrought  through 

lifelong  throes 
That  energetic  passion  of  repose. 


A  nature  too  decorous  and  severe, 
Too  self-respectful    in   its   griefs   and 

joys, 
For  ardent  girls  and  boys 
Who  find  no  genius  in  a  mind  so  clear 
That  its  grave  depths  seem  obvious  and 

near, 
Nor  a  soul  great  that  made  so  little 

noise. 
They  feel  no  force  in  that  calm-cadenced 

phrase, 


The  habitual  full-dress  of  his  well-bred 

mind, 
That  seems  to  pace  the  minuet's  courtly 

maze 
And   tell  of  ampler  leisures,  roomier 

length  of  days. 
His  firm-based  brain,  to  self  so  little 

kind 
That  no  tumultuary  blood  could  blind, 
Formed  to  control  men,  not  amaze, 
Looms    not    like    those    that    borrow 

height  of  haze  : 
It  was  a  world  of  statelier  movement 

then 
Than  this  we  fret  in,  he  a  denizen 
Of  that  ideal  Rome  that  made  a  man 

for  men. 

VI. 


The  longer  on  this  earth  we  live 
And  weigh  the  various  qualities  of  men, 
Seeing  how  most  are  fugitive. 
Or  fitful  gifts,  at  best,  of  now  and  then, 
Wind-wavered  corpse-lights,  daughters 

of  the  fen, 
The    more   we   feel    the    high    stern- 
featured  beauty 
Of  plain  devotedness  to  duty, 
Steadfast  and  still,  nor  paid  with  mortal 

praise, 
But  finding  amplest  recompense 
For  life's  ungarlanded  expense 
In  work  done  squarely  and  unwasted 

days. 
For  this  we  honor  him,  that  he  could 

know 
How  sweet  the  service  and  how  free 
Of  her,  God's  eldest  daughter  here  be- 
low, 
And  choose  in  meanest  raiment  which 
was  she. 


Placid  completeness,  life  without  a  fall 
From   faith    or    highest   aims,   truth's 

breachless  wall, 
Surely  if  any  fame  can  bear  the  touch, 
His  will  say  "  Here  !  "  at  the  last  trum- 
pet's call. 
The  unexpressive  man  whose  life  ex- 
pressed so  much. 


466 


THREE  MEMORIAL   POEMS. 


VII. 


Never  to  see  a  nation  born 
Hath  been  given  to  mortal  man, 
Unless  to  those  who,  on  that  summer 

morn, 
Gazed  silent  when  the  great  Virginian 
Unsheathed  the  sword  whose  fatal  flash 
Shot  union  through  the  incoherent  clash 
Of  our  loose  atoms,  crystallizing  them 
Around  a  single  will's  unpliant  stem, 
And  making  purpose  of  emotion  rash. 
Out  of  that  scabbard  sprang,  as  from  its 

womb, 
Nebulous  at  first  but  hardening  to  a  star, 
Through  mutual  share  of  sunburst  and 

of  gloom, 
The  common  faith  that  made  us  what 

we  are. 

2. 

That  lifted  blade  transformed  our  jan- 
gling clans, 

Till  then  provincial,  to  Americans, 

And  made  a  unity  of  wildering  plans; 

Here  was  the  doom  fixed :  here  is 
marked  the  date 

When  this  New  World  awoke  to  man's 
estate, 

Burnt  its  last  ship  and  ceased  to  look 
behind  : 

Nor  thoughtless  was  the  choice  ;  no  love 
or  hate 

Could  from  its  poise  move  that  deliber- 
ate mind, 

Weighing  between  too  early  and  too  late 

Those  pitfalls  of  the  man  refused  by 
Fate  : 

His  was  the  impartial  vision  of  the  great 

Who  see  not  as  they  wish,  but  as  they 
find. 

He  saw  the  dangers  of  defeat,  nor  less 

The  incomputable  perils  of  success  ; 

The  sacred  past  thrown  by,  an  empty 
rind  ; 

The  future,  cloud-land,  snare  of  proph- 
ets blind  ; 

The  waste  of  war,  the  ignominy  of 
peace ; 

On  either  hand  a  sullen  rear  of  woes, 

Whose  garnered  lightnings  none  could 
guess, 

Piling  its  thunder-heads  and  muttering 
"  Cease  1" 


Yet  drew  not  back  his  hand,  but  gravely 

chose 
The  seeming-desperate  task  whence  our 

new  nation  rose. 


A  noble  choice  and  of  immortal  seed  ! 
Nor   deem   that  acts   heroic  wait    on 

chance 
Or  easy  were  as  in  a  boy's  romance ; 
The  man's  whole  life  preludes  the  single 

deed 
That  shall  decide  if  his  inheritance 
Be  with   the   sifted   few  of  matchless 

breed, 
Our  race's  sap  and  sustenance, 
Or  with  the  unmotived  herd  that  only 

sleep  and  feed. 
Choice  seems  a  thing  indifferent ;  thus 

or  so, 
What   matters    it?     The    Fates   with 

mocking  face 
Look  on  inexorable,  nor  seem  to  know 
Where  the  lot  lurks  that  gives  life's 

foremost  place. 
Yet  Duty's  leaden  casket  holds  it  still, 
And  but  two  ways  are  offered  to  our  will, 
Toil  with  rare  triumph,  ease  with  safe 

disgrace, 
The  problem  still  for  us  and  all  of  hu- 
man race. 
He  chose,  as  men  choose,  where  most 

danger  showed, 
Nor  ever  faltered  'neath  the  load 
Of  petty  cares,  that  gall  great  hearts  the 

most, 
But  kept  right  on  the  strenuous  up-hill 

road, 
Strong  to  the  end,  above  complaint  or 

boast : 
The  popular  tempest  on  his  rock-mailed 

coast 
Wasted  its  wind-borne  spray, 
The  noisy  marvel  of  a  day  ; 
His   soul   sate   still   in   its   unstormed 
abode. 

VIII. 

Virginia  gave  us  this  imperial  man 
Cast  in  the  massive  mould 
Of  those  high-statured  ages  old 
Which  into  grander  forms  our  mortal 
metal  ran ; 


AN  ODE  FOR    THE   FOURTH  OF  JULY. 


467 


She  gave  us  this  unblemished  gentle- 
man : 
What  shall  we  give  her  back  but  love 

and  praise 
As  in  the  dear  old  unestranged  days 
Before  the  inevitable  wrong  began  ? 
Mother  of   States   and    undiminished 

men, 
Thou  gavest  us  a  country,  giving  him. 
And  we  owe  alway  what  we  owed  thee 

then  : 
The  boon  thou  wouldst  have  snatched 

from  us  agen 
Shines  as  before  with  no  abatement  dim. 
A  great  man's  memory  is  the  only  thing 
With  influence  to  outlast   the  present 

whim 
And  bind  us  as  when  here  he  knit  our 

golden  ring. 
All  of  him  that  was  subject  to  the  hours 
Lies  in  thy  soil  and  makes  it  part  of 

ours  : 
Across  more  recent  graves, 
Where  unresentful  Nature  waves 
Her   pennons   o'er   the  shot-ploughed 

sod, 
Proclaiming  the  sweet  Truce  of  God, 
We  from  this  consecrated  plain  stretch 

out 
Our  hands  as  free  from  afterthought  or 

doubt 
As  here  the  united  North 
Poured  her  embrowned  manhood  forth 
In  welcome  of  our  savior  and  thy  son. 
Through  battle  we  have  better  learned 

thy  worth, 
The  long-breathed  valor  and  undaunted 

will, 
Which,  like  his  own,  the  day's  disaster 

done, 
Could,  safe  in  manhood,  suffer  and  be 

still. 
Both  thine  and  ours  the  victory  hardly 

won  ; 
If  ever  with  distempered  voice  or  pen 
We  have  misdeemed  thee,  here  we  take 

it  back, 
And  for  the  dead  of  both  don  common 

black. 
Be  to  us  evermore  as  thou  wast  then, 
As  we  forget  thou  hast  not  always  been, 
Mother  of  States  and  unpolluted  men, 
Virginia,  fitly  named   from   England's 

manly  queen  1 


AN  ODE 

FOR   THE   FOURTH    OF   JULY,    1876. 


Entranced  I  saw  a  vision  in  the  cloud 

That  loitered  dreaming  in  yon  sunset 
sky, 

Full  of  fair  shapes,  half  creatures  of  the 
eye, 

Half  chance-evoked  by  the  wind's  fan- 
tasy 

In  golden  mist,  an  ever-shifting  crowd: 

There,  mid  unreal  forms  that  came  and 
went 

In  robes  air-spun,  of  evanescent  dye, 

A  woman's  semblance  shone  pre-emi- 
nent ; 

Not  armed  like  Pallas,  not  like  Hera 
proud, 

But,  as  on  household  diligence  intent, 

Beside  her  visionary  wheel  she  bent 

Like  Arete  or  Bertha,  nor  than  they 

Less  queenly  in  her  port  :  about  her 
knee 

Glad  children  clustered  confident  in 
play  : 

Placid  her  pose,  the  calm  of  energy  ; 

And  over  her  broad  brow  in  many  a 
round 

(That  loosened  would  have  gilt  her  gar- 
ment's hem), 

Succinct,  as  toil  prescribes,  the  hair  was 
wound 

In  lustrous  coils,  a  natural  diadem. 

The  cloud  changed  shape,  obsequious 
to  the  whim 

Of  some  transmuting  influence  felt  in 
me, 

And,  looking  now,  a  wolf  I  seemed  to 
see 

Limned  in  that  vapor,  gaunt  and  hun- 
ger-bold, 

Threatening  her  charge :  resolve  in 
every  limb, 

Erect  she  flamed  in  mail  of  sun-wove 
gold, 

Penthesilea's  self  for  battle  dight ; 

One  arm  uplifted  braced  a  flickering 
spear, 

And  one  her  adamantine  shield  made 
light ; 


468 


THREE  MEMORIAL  POEMS. 


Her  face,  helm-shadowed,  grew  a  thing 
to  fear, 

And  her  fierce  eyes,  by  danger  chal- 
lenged, took 

Her  trident-sceptred  mother's  dauntless 
look. 

"  I  know  thee  now,  O  goddess-born  !  " 
I  cried, 

And  turned  with  loftier  brow  and  firmer 
stride  ; 

For  in  that  spectral  cloud-work  I  had 
seen  • 

Her  image,  bodied  forth  by  love  and 
pride, 

The  fearless,  the  benign,  the  mother- 
eyed, 

The  fairer  world's  toil-consecrated 
queen. 

2. 

What  shape  by  exile  dreamed  elates 

the  mind 
Like  hers  whose  hand,  a  fortress  of 

the  poor, 
No  blood  in  lawful  vengeance  spilt  be- 

stains  ? 
Who  never  turned  a  suppliant  from 

her  door? 
Whose  conquests  are  the  gains  of  all 

mankind? 
To-day  her  thanks  shall  fly  on  every 

wind, 
Unstinted,  unrebuked,  from  shore  to 

shore, 
One  love,  one  hope,  and  not  a  doubt 

behind  ! 
Cannon   to   cannon    shall    repeat    her 

praise, 
Banner  to  banner  flap  it  forth  in  flame  ; 
Her  children  shall  rise  up  to  bless  her 

name, 
And  wish  her  harmless  length  of  days, 
The  mighty  mother  of  a  mighty  brood, 
Blessed  in  all  tongues  and  dear  to  every 

blood, 
The  beautiful,  the  strong,  and,  best  of 

all,  the  good  I 


Seven  years  long  was  the  bow 
Of  battle  bent,  and  the  heightening 
Storm-heaps  convulsed  with  the  throe 
Of  their  uncontainable  lightening  ; 
Seven  years  long  heard  the  sea 


Crash  of  navies  and  wave-borne  thun- 
der ; 
Then  drifted  the  cloud-rack  a-lee, 
And  new  stars  were   seen,  a  world's 

wonder  ; 
Each  by  her  sisters  made  bright, 
All  binding  all  to  their  stations, 
Cluster  of  manifold  light 
Startling  the  old  constellations  : 
Men  looked  up  and  grew  pale  : 
Was  it  a  comet  or  star, 
Omen  of  blessing  or  bale, 
Hung  o'er  the  ocean  afar  ? 


Stormy  the  day  of  her  birth  : 
Was  she  not  born  of  the  strong, 
She,  the  last  ripeness  of  earth, 
Beautiful,  prophesied  long  ? 
Stormy  the  days  of  her  prime  : 
Hers  are  the  pulses  that  beat 
Higher  for  perils  sublime, 
Making  them  fawn  at  her  feet. 
Was  she  not  born  of  the  strong? 
Was  she  not  born  of  the  wise? 
Daring  and  counsel  belong 
Of  right  to  her  confident  eyes  : 
Human  and  motherly  they, 
Careless  of  station  or  race  : 
Hearken  !  her  children  to-day 
Shout  for  the  joy  of  her  face. 


II. 


No  praises  of  the  past  are  hers, 
No  fanes  by  hallowing  time  caressed, 
No  broken  arch  th^  ministers 
To  some  sad  instinct  in  the  breast : 
She  has  not  gathered  from  the  years 
Grandeur  of  tragedies  and  tears, 
Nor  from  long  leisure  the  unrest 
That   finds  repose  in  forms  of  classic 

grace : 
These  may  delight  the  coming  race 
Who  haply  shall  not  count  it  to  our 

crime 
That  we  who  fain  would  sing  are  here 

before  our  time. 
She  also  hath  her  monuments; 
Not  such  as  stand  decrepitly  resigned 
To  ruin-mark  the  path  of  dead  events 


AN  ODE  FOR    THE  FOURTH  OF  JULY. 


469 


That  left  no  seed  of  better  days  be- 
hind, 

The  tourist's  pensioners  that  show  their 
scars 

And  maunder  of  forgotten  wars  ; 

She  builds  not  on  the  ground,  but  in 
the  mind, 

Her  open-hearted  palaces 

For  larger-thoughted  men  with  heaven 
and  earth  at  ease  : 

Her  march  the  plump  mow  marks,  the 
sleepless  wheel. 

The  golden  sheaf,  the  self-swayed  com- 
monweal ; 

The  happy  homesteads  hid  in  orchard 
trees 

Whose     sacrificial     smokes     through 
peaceful  air 

Rise  lost  in  heaven,  the   household's 
silent  prayer ; 

What  architect  hath  bettered  these  ? 

With  softened  eye  the  westward  trav- 
eller sees 

A  thousand  miles  of  neighbors  side  by 
side, 

Holding  by  toil-won  titles  fresh  from 
God 

The  lands  no  serf  or  seigneur  ever  trod, 

With  manhood  latent  in  the  very  sod, 

Where  the  long  billow  of  the  wheat- 
field's  tide 

Flows  to   the   sky  across   the   prairie 
wide, 

A    sweeter    vision    than    the    castled 

Rhine, 
Kindly   with  thoughts    of  Ruth    and 
Bible-days  benign. 


*0   ancient    commonwealths,   that    we 

revere 
Haply  because  we  could  not  know  you 

near, 
Your    deeds    like    statues    down    the 

aisles  of  Time 
Shine  peerless  in  memorial  calm  sub- 
lime, 
And   Athens   is   a   trumpet   still,    and 

Rome  ; 
Yet  which  of  your  achievements  is  not 

foam 
Weighed  with  this  one  of  hers  (below 

you  far 


In  fame,  and  born  beneath  a  milder 

star), 
That  to  Earth's  orphans,  far  as  curves 

the  dome, 
Of  death-deaf  sky,  the  bounteous  West 

means  home, 
With  dear  precedency  of  natural  ties 
That  stretch  from  roof  to  roof  and  make 

men  gently  wise? 
And  if  the  nobler  passions  wane, 
Distorted  to  base  use,  if  the  near  goal 
Of  insubstantial  gain 
Tempt  from  the  proper  race-course  of 

the  soul 
That  crowns  their  patient  breath 
Whose  feet,  song-pinioned,  are  too  fleet 

for  Death, 
Yet  may  she  claim  one  privilege  urbane 
And  haply  first  upon  the  civic  roll, 
That  none  can  breathe  her  air  nor  grow 

humane. 


O,  better  far  the  briefest  hour 

Of  Athens  self-consumed,  whose  plastic 

power 
Hid  Beauty  safe  from  Death  in  words 

or  stone  ; 
Of  Rome,  fair  quarry  where  those  eagles 

crowd 
Whose  fulgurous  vans  about  the  world 

had  blown 
Triumphant  storm  and  seeds  of  polity  ; 
Of  Venice,  fading  o'er  her  shipless  sea, 
Last  iridescence  of  a  sunset  cloud  ; 
Than  this  inert  prosperity, 
This  bovine  comfort  in  the  sense  alone  I 
Yet  art  came  slowly  even  to  such  as 

those, 
Whom  no  past  genius  cheated  of  their 

own 
With  prudence  of  o'ermastering  prece- 
dent ; 
Petal  by  petal  spreads  the  perfect  rose, 
Secure  of  the  divine  event ; 
And  only  children  rend  the  bud  half- 
blown 
To  forestall  Nature  in  her  calm  intent : 
Time 'hath  a  quiver  full  of  purposes 
Which  miss  not  of  their  aim,  to  us  un- 
known, 
And  brings  about  the  impossible  with 

ease : 
Haply  for  us  the  ideal  dawn  shall  break 


470 


THREE   MEMORIAL   POEMS. 


From  where  in  legend-tinted  line 

The  peaks  of  Hellas  drink  the  morn- 
ing's wine, 

To  tremble  on  our  lids  with  mystic 
sign 

Till  the  drowsed  ichor  in  our  veins 
awake 

And  set  our  pulse  in  tune  with  moods 
divine  : 

Long  the  day  lingered  in  its  sea-fringed 
nest, 

Then  touched  the  Tuscan  hills  with 
golden  lance 

And  paused  ;  then  on  to  Spain  and 
France 

The  splendor  flew,  and  Albion's  misty 
crest : 

Shall  Ocean  bar  him  from  his  destined 
West? 

Or  are  we,  then,  arrived  too  late, 

Doomed  with  the  rest  to  grope  discon- 
solate, 

Foreclosed  of  Beauty  by  our  modern 
date? 

III. 


Poets,  as  their  heads  grow  gray, 
Look  from  too  far  behind  the  eyes, 
Too  long-experienced  to  be  wise 
In  guileless  youth's  diviner  way  ; 
Life  sings  not  now,  but  prophesies  ; 
Time's  shadows  they  no  more  behold, 
But,  under  them,  the  riddle  old 
That  mocks,  bewilders,  and  defies: 
In  childhood's  face  the  seed  of  shame, 
In  the  green  tree  an  ambushed  flame, 
In  Phosphor  a  vaunt-guard  of  Night, 
They,  though  against  their  will,  divine, 
And  dread  the  care-dispelling  wine 
Stored  from  the  Muse's  vintage  bright, 
By  age  imbued  witli  second-sight. 
From  Faith's  own  eyelids  there  peeps 

out, 
Even  as  they  look,  the  leer  of  doubt; 
The  festal  wreath  their  fancy  loads 
With  care  that  whispers  and  forebodes  : 
Nor  this  our  triumph-day  can   blunt 

Megsera's  goads. 


Murmur  of  many  voices  in  the  air 
Denounces  us  degenerate, 


Unfaithful  guardians  of  a  noble  fate, 
And  prompts  indifference  or  despair: 
Is  this  the  country  that  we  dreamed  in 

youth, 
Where  wisdom  and  not  numbers  should 

have  weight, 
Seed-field  of  simpler  manners,  braver 

truth, 
Where  shams  should  cease  to  dominate 
In  household,  church,  and  state? 
Is  this  Atlantis?    This  the  unpoisoned 

soil, 
Sea-whelmed  for  ages  and  recovered 

late, 
Where  parasitic  greed  no  more  should 

coil 
Round  Freedom's  stem  to  bend  awry 

and  blight 
What  grew  so  fair,  sole  plant  of  love 

and  light? 
Who  sit  where  once  in  crowned  seclu- 
sion sate 
The  long-proved  athletes  of  debate 
Trained    from    their    youth,   as   none 

thinks  needful  now? 
Is  this  debating-club  where  boys  dis- 
pute, 
And  wrangle  o'er  their  stolen  fruit, 
The   Senate,  erewhile  cloister  of  the 

few, 
Where  Clay  once  flashed  and  Webster's 

cloudy  brow 
Brooded  those  bolts  of  thought  that  all 

the  horizon  knew  ? 


O,  as  this  pensive  moonlight  blurs  my 

pines, 
Here  as  I  sit  and  meditate  these  lines, 
To  gray-green  dreams  of  what  they  are 

by  day, 
So  would  some  light,  not  reason's  sharp- 
edged  ray, 
Trance  me  in  moonshine  as  before  the 

flight 
Of  years  had  won  me  this  unwelcome 

right 
To  see  things  as  they  are,  or  shall  be 

soon, 
In   the   frank  prose   of  undissembling 

noon  ! 

4 
Back  to  my  breast,  ungrateful  sigh! 
Whoever  fails,  whoever  errs, 


AN  ODE   FOR    THE  FOURTH  OF  JULY. 


47' 


The  penalty  be  ours,  not  hers  ! 

The  present  still  seems  vulgar,  seen  too 

nigh  ; 
The  golden  age  is  still  the  age  that  's 

past : 
I  ask  no  drowsy  opiate 
To  dull  my  vision  of  that  only  state 
Founded  on  faith  in  man,  and  therefore 

sure  to  last. 
For,  O,  my  country,  touched  by  thee, 
The  gray  hairs  gather  back  their  gold ; 
Thy  thought  sets  all  my  pulses  free  ; 
The  heart  refuses  to  be  old  ; 
The  love  is  all  that  I  can  see. 
Not  to  thy  natal-day  belong 
Time's  prudent  doubt  or  age's  wrong, 
But  gifts  of  gratitude  and  song  : 
Unsummoned  crowd  the  thankful  words, 
As  sap  in  spring-time  floods  the  tree, 
Foreboding  the  return  of  birds, 
For  all  that  thou  hast  been  to  me  ! 


IV. 


Flawless  his  heart  and  tempered  to 

the  core 
Who,  beckoned  by  the  forward-leaning 

wave, 
First  left   behind  him  the  firm-footed 

shore, 
And,  urged  by  every  nerve  of  sail  and 

oar, 
Steered  for  the  Unknown  which  gods  to 

mortals  gave, 
Of  thought  and  action  the  mysterious 

door, 
Bugbear   of  fools,  a   summons  to   the 

brave  : 
Strength  found  he  in  the  unsympathiz- 

ing  sun, 
And   strange   stars   from   beneath   the 

horizon  won, 
And  the  dumb  ocean  pitilessly  grave  : 
High-hearted  surely  he; 
But  bolder  they  who  first  off-cast 
Their  moorings  from  the  habitable  Past 
And  ventured  chartless  on  the  sea 
Of  storm-engendering  Liberty: 
For  all  earth's  width  of  waters  is  a  span, 
And  their  convulsed  existence  mere  re- 
pose, 
Matched  with  the  unstable  heart  of  man, 


Shoreless  in  wants,  mist-girt  in  all  it 

knows, 
Open  to  every  wind  of  sect  or  clan, 
And   sudden-passionate   in    ebbs   and 

flows. 


They  steered  by  stars  the  elder  shipmen 
knew, 

And  laid  their  courses  where  the  cur- 
rents draw 

Of  ancient  wisdom  channelled  deep  in 
law, 

The  undaunted  few 

Who  changed  the  Old  World  for  the 
New, 

And  more  devoutly  prized 

Than  all  perfection  theorized 

The  more  imperfect  that  had  roots  and 
grew. 

They  founded  deep  and  well, 

Those  danger-chosen  chiefs  of  men 

Who  still  believed  in  Heaven  and  Hell, 

Nor  hoped  to  find  a  spell. 

In  some  fine  flourish  of  a  pen, 

To  make  a  better  man 

Than  long-considering  Nature  will  or 
can, 

Secure  against  his  own  mistakes, 

Content  with  what  life  gives  or  takes, 

And  acting  still  on  some  fore-ordered 
plan, 

A  cog  of  iron  in  an  iron  wheel, 

Too  nicely  poised  to  think  or  feel, 

Dumb  motor  in  a  clock-like  common- 
weal. 

They  wasted  not  their  brain  in  schemes 

Of  what  man  might  be  in  some  bubble- 
sphere, 

As  if  he  must  be  other  than  he  seems 

Because  he  was  not  what  he  should  be 
here, 

Postponing  Time's  slow  proof  to  petu- 
lant dreams : 

Yet  herein  they  were  great 

Beyond  the  incredulous  lawgivers  of 
yore, 

And  wiser  than  the  wisdom  of  the  shelf. 

That  they  conceived  a  deeper-rooted 
state, 

Of  hardier  growth,  alive  from  rind  to 
core, 

By  making  man  sole  sponsor  of  him- 
self. 


472 


THREE  MEMORIAL  POEMS. 


God  of  our  fathers,  Thou  who  wast, 
Art,  and  shalt  be  when  those  eye-wise 

who  flout 
Thy  secret  presence  shall  be  lost 
In  the  great  light  that  dazzles  them  to 

doubt, 
We,   sprung    from    loins    of   stalwart 

men 
Whose  strength  was  in  their  trust 


That  Thou  wouldst  make  thy  dwelling 

in  their  dust 
And  walk  with  them  a  fellow-citizen 
Who  build  a  city  of  the  just, 
We,  who  believe  Life's  bases  rest 
Beyond  the  probe  of  chemic  test, 
Still,  like  our  fathers,  feel  Thee  near, 
Sure   that,  while  lasts  the  immutable 

decree, 
The  land  to  Human  Nature  dear 
Shall  not  be  unbeloved  of  Thee. 


\ 


